Somewhere a Clock is Ticking
by Joey51
Summary: Post finale season three. Ryan handles the situation in a way that has the Cohens running circles in panic.
1. Prologue

Thanks to **muchtvs** and **Sister Rose** for all the help with this. Dedicated to the wonderful **Beachtree**.

**Somewhere a Clock is Ticking**

PROLOGUE

"It's weird," Seth says as he plunks himself down into the waiting room chair between me and his mother.

"What?" I ask, thinking that all of this is too weird for my liking.

"That all he does is lie there with his eyes closed."

The look Kirsten shoots him compensates for the lack of words. It says "Shut up" and "I love you" all at the same time.

Seth pays her no attention, staring straight ahead at the poster on the wall that simply preaches "Smoking Will Kill You" in big red letters.

"It's like he's awake, you know? Like he's faking it or something."

"Seth," Kirsten admonishes, verbally this time, her voice louder than the hum of the vending machine against the wall, the only other producer of noise in our secluded little corner of the hospital. She glances at me for backup, but I can only shrug; I can't be bothered. I'm actually kind of curious as to what our son's going to say next.

If he even takes notice of the warning, it doesn't show. "I don't mean physically…just everything else. Obviously there's stuff wrong; I just don't think he's really asleep."

It's then that I notice how tired Seth is. He's speaking softly, his eyelids weighted and drooping, the corners of his eyes red and puffy. He sniffs and sighs, leaning back in his chair and running both hands through his hair quickly – a last-ditch effort to stimulate his fading mind.

If Kirsten was at all angry at Seth's comments, the emotion is gone now. She reaches over and squeezes his knee, letting her hand rest there.

"Why don't you try to get some sleep," I tell him. "You can go home and shower and get some rest. I'll call you a cab – I don't want you driving."

"S'okay," he mumbles, his eyes closed for now, head resting on the back of the plastic chair. "I'll wait until Ryan wakes up again. Just to be sure"

Kirsten glances at me worriedly. I know what she's thinking. Ryan has awoken several times since we've been here. But he's not really awake. He's not really there. He opens his eyes and answers questions and forces his lips into a tight, reassuring smile every time Kirsten looks his way. There's something about the way he's dealing that's unnerving. Not that he's doing anything that would be considered out of character for Ryan; being quiet, reserved and emotionally distant are things that come naturally to him. It's not like he's acting. He's just barely reacting. And I know exactly what Seth means. Ryan's hardly with us. He shouldn't be that tired.

* * *

Around 2:30 a.m., Kirsten finally convinces a half-asleep Seth to go home with her to get cleaned up. I promise to hold down the fort with as much fake enthusiasm as a person can muster going on 24 stressful hours without sleep and in the wake of a death.

I watch their backs as they walk through the large double glass doors and disappear into the darkness. I brace my hands on my knees, stand up slowly and meander toward Ryan's dimly lit room at the very end of the hall.

I drop into the only chair in the room, pushed into a corner and behind a wall of wires and machines that I fear are responsible for Ryan's vitality, even though I've been told otherwise. Without Kirsten and Seth—especially Seth—the difficulty of staying awake increases tenfold.

While they're gone, Ryan wakes up four times.

First, he quietly asks for water. I jump up from my seat, grab the cup by the sink, and contemplate navigating around the wires—quickly changing my mind, approaching from the other side of the bed. He takes one long sip, and falls asleep again before I can return the cup to the counter.

The second time, a nurse gently rubs the back of his hand and asks him a series of questions to which I'm sure Ryan has already memorized the answers. "Do you know where you are? What's your address? What are the three words the doctor told you to remember earlier?"

He responds obediently, correctly, and slowly. My heart leaps up in my throat when he pauses before reciting the last of the three all-important answers, his brow scrunching up, eyes squeezed shut. "Parrot," I say under my breath," and the nurse shoots me a look of disapproval.

Ryan nods, relaxing his face. "Right." He takes a deep breath and holds it for a few seconds. Letting it out, he whispers, "Parrot." Before the nurse can make a note on his chart, he's asleep again.

The third time he wakes, I have one foot through the threshold of sleep. Before I can process what is going on—why I'm awake so suddenly—I'm out of my chair, this time immediately boycotting the wires, working my way to the far side of the narrow hospital bed. But a nurse is already there, holding a hideously pink container—like they can cover up the crudity of what they represent by making them the color of bubble gum or roses—under Ryan's chin as he chokes and coughs. I must have been later to the punch than I assumed because as soon as I can shake off the cobwebs, it's over. The nurse, apparently a multi-tasker, uses her free hand to stack three flat pillows at the head of the bed.

He leans back onto the support, a sweaty sheen covering his pale face and neck. I can't think of anything to say, so I run my hand up and down his forearm, stopping just above his watch tan, where three small stitches are holding shut a small laceration. Ryan had actually looked somewhat devastated when I explained to him that his wrist would be fine, but the watch didn't make it.

The stitches are stretched and strained, and if it wasn't for the subtle giveaway of his hands clutching bunches of stark white linens, I would say he looks calm. Completely serene, to the untrained eye. The nurse briskly goes about cleaning up in the small bathroom just off the room.

"Are you okay?" I ask him, reaching around the machines to pull my chair over so I can be close without running the risk of collapsing. Wouldn't that just be the icing on the cake….

"Can you…?" He lifts his hand up just enough to point to the blanket that lay folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

"Yeah, yeah. Of course," I answer. I'm just happy to be able to do something. As I'm unfolding the blanket and pulling it up under his chin, he falls asleep again. And suddenly it's perfectly clear what Seth was trying to tell us earlier. Ryan shouldn't be this tired. It really is like he's faking it. Like, even for Ryan, he's too okay and too detached and too unemotional considering what he has just experienced, if that makes any sense at all.

I watch him for as long as I can force myself to, but the nurse has once again dimmed the lights and the hum of activity in the halls has faded to silence and it's then that I realize I'm too tired. Genuinely, undeniably tired. I settle back in my chair, positioned so that I can see Ryan by simply opening my eyes, not having to move at all.

The fourth awakening somehow manages to slip under my radar. And as soon as I open my eyes, I know I'll never forgive myself for giving in to exhaustion. Because the fourth time Ryan wakes up, he leaves.

TBC.


	2. Chapter 1

I don't know how this chapter is going to be received, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

Thanks to **muchtvs** and **roseintexas** for all their help. I've played a bit, so every little mistake is mine and only mine.

Again, dedicated to the lovely **beachtree.**

**CHAPTER ONE**

"What do you mean you_ lost_ him? People don't just get up and leave their hospital beds, Sandy. Especially not people who are medicated and can barely keep their eyes open!"

"I think Seth was right. I think he was faking it."

A nurse rushes down the hall, dragging a cart which holds a machine similar to the one Ryan was still attached to when I fell asleep over an hour ago. I press up flat against the wall to let her by. Even though I've lowered the phone to my side, I'm still able to make out Kirsten's words over the roaring of the wheels against the ceramic floor. I check the nurse's face as she strides past, and judging by her expression, I don't think she overheard the tinny obscenities blaring from my cell phone.

I raise the phone back to my ear when the yelling stops. "I'm sure he just…stepped out," I lie, knowing that this is the one person in the world who can see right through it, even over the phone.

"Yes, Sandy, with a severe concussion, bruised ribs, and a badly sprained neck, he just stepped out." There's a long silence, and really, there's nothing I can say to that. I wish I had the answers. "Find him," she growls, punctuated by the sound of her phone snapping shut.

I look around for any sign of Ryan's doctor or nurse, but figure that they're probably with whoever required the rushed cart delivery. I know there's nothing else they can do. Less than an hour ago, when I realized in a complete panic that Ryan was gone, and tracked them both down, they were more sympathetic than concerned. Probably a good thing, I tried to assure myself. If they're not that worried about Ryan wandering about on his own, he'll probably be okay.

As I walk down the hall, I glance into the bright nurses' station. To my surprise, Dr. Morrison is leaning over the counter, flipping through a chart. He looks up at me and smiles briefly, his shortly cropped goatee taking on less-intimidating shape. He puts down the chart with a few verbal instructions for the nurse, and then strolls over to where I'm standing.

"Any word from Ryan?" he asks while tucking his pen into his breast pocket. His voice is soft and genuine, surely something he perfected in a compassion course during his last semester of med school—which couldn't have been more than a couple years ago.

I shake my head and glance at my watch. He has only been missing for 54 minutes. He can't be that far. I have to stop sitting on this and start doing something about it.

We already know he's not in the hospital; a thorough search took place almost immediately after I set off the alarm, revealing nothing except the fact that Ryan had taken the time to change into the clothes and shoes he arrived in, leaving behind a neatly folded hospital gown in their place. That didn't surprise me. I would be shocked if he hadn't folded it. The only other thing that caught my attention was the clock that had been hanging on the wall across the room, was found on his bed, and I can't wrap my head around any reason why Ryan would have moved it like that. The nurse just shrugged and hung it back on its hook on the wall. They determined that he probably slipped out the fire exit door next to his room at the back of the wing, where there are no cameras and the alarm had been temporarily disabled for maintenance.

He did all this while I was sleeping. Right in front of me. While I slept.

"Mr. Cohen, this happens a lot; people get disoriented and they wander, but they always come back within a few hours. Ryan is probably fighting one hell of a headache and I can't imagine him straying too far from relief or for too long."

Strangely, that doesn't make me feel any better. If he was that uncomfortable, in that much pain and that reliant on the drugs, why would he leave in the first place?

The doctor must have read my mind, because he dives right into his next "reassure the parent" spiel. He has done this before, that much is obvious.

"Ryan has been through more than we can even imagine in the past eight hours or so, and had I suspected he was going to bolt, I would have had psych up here sooner. But he's probably just trying to find some peace of mind. He's a good kid; he'll find you when he's ready. I don't think he'd do anything stupid."

And that's where he's wrong. Because, yes, Ryan's an extremely intelligent kid who cares very much about his family and friends, but he has a tendency to do really stupid things. It's his fatal flaw, and as much as I love him, I would change that about him if I could.

I stare directly into the doctor's eyes during his speech. Half of me wants to tell him he doesn't know what the hell he's talking about, but the other half wants so desperately to believe every word he's saying. In the end, I nod and ignore my overtired instincts.

"When you do find him," Morrison says, sounding just a tiny bit less sure of himself, "make sure you bring him back." I agree with a nod. "Just to be safe," he adds at the end with another signature smile.

"I'll do that," I promise, as if there's no doubt in the world Ryan is just simply making his way home to the comfort of his own bed. This is how I need to be right now. Positive. Positive in the aftermath of devastation and heartbreak and tragedy. Fear and sadness aren't going to help me find Ryan. I know that Julie and Kirsten and Seth and Summer and most everyone is currently overwhelmed by grief and confusion, but I'll cry tears for Marissa later. Right now, finding Ryan is my one and only single concern.

* * *

As I'm driving slowly through the side streets surrounding the hospital, squinting and scanning for any moving form, my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull over and flip it open, continuing to survey every darkened nook and cranny in my range of sight. I answer with an absent "Hello," my eyes darting over to a corner where a pigeon is scouring the ground.

"Dad, where are you?"

Seth sounds a lot better. Clearer after getting a couple hours of sleep. Obviously Kirsten, in her frustration and anger, has left all communication between father and son.

I look around for a street sign. "I'm on Placentia Avenue."

"That's just gross, Dad."

Yes, Seth has definitely caught up on his sleep.

I can hear him relay the information to his mother, and within 30 seconds, the Range Rover's lights are coming toward me.

She pulls the car directly in front my Beamer, leaving a small, but well-lit area between the two vehicles.

I meet them halfway, and am instantly jealous of their refreshed appearances. I self-consciously pull at the collar of my shirt, but it's a lost cause.

I tell them everything I know—I regurgitate the doctor's reassuring words, explain that Ryan was not anywhere in the hospital, add that he took his clothes—and let Kirsten and Seth absorb all the information.

"Did he say anything to you after we left?" she asks.

"No, he…" I pause, uncertain. I don't want to tell her the details of Ryan's awakenings—the forgotten word, the vomiting, his pale, haunted face—but Kirsten is all business right now, and I'm not thinking straight enough to talk my way out of this one.

"He _what_?" she prompts.

I reluctantly tell her everything that happened during her absence. She listens intently with her arms crossed in front of her chest, a position that screams "don't touch me" if I've ever seen one. In the glow of the headlights, I can't help but notice that Seth has paled a little bit by the end of my story. Kirsten turns and paces back and forth in a short line, and I take the opportunity to reach over and grab Seth's shoulder, squeezing it encouragingly. "He'll be fine," I say, just loud enough for him to hear over the idling engines.

Kirsten stops pacing and holds out her keys. "Seth, take my car home and wait for Ryan to show up there."

"But I want to help look for him." He looks to me with pleading eyes, and then to his mother. "I hang out with Ryan more than anyone. I know where to look. I'd be wasted at home." It's less of a whine and more of a debate, and a swell of pride washes over me. He might be a lawyer yet.

I expect sparks to fly at Seth's display of disobedience, but his argument must have hit its mark, because Kirsten nods understandingly.

"Fine. I'll wait at home."

She opens the door to the Range Rover, and I almost expect her to get in and drive away without any further words, but she emerges with a large stainless steel Thermos. "Here," she says, holding it out to me. The rich coffee aroma seeps through the seal and just a small whiff causes my mouth to water in anticipation. "You look like you could use it."

She has softened and I can tell from the hitch of her last couple words that she's more upset than angry. Her hands have dropped to her sides and I interpret that as an invitation. I take the Thermos and wrap my arms around her. She responds and squeezes back tightly, whispering in my ear, "We have to find him, Sandy. I can't lose him."

There is no levity. No sarcastic snip or sly comment from Seth, who simply turns around as if he feels he's intruding, and I can feel the weight of it all sink in. An 18-year-old girl died in Ryan's arms last night, but it easily could have been the other way around.

We won't let go so easily.

* * *

As a taxi driver in the land of no taxis, Maurice isn't the type to ask anything beyond "Where to?"—partially because his English isn't great, but mostly because his clients usually only require his service because they're too drunk to even start their own cars. But when Maurice pulls over on his way home to pick up the kid slowly making his way north along the shoulder of the road, a million different questions swirl through his head.

_Where to?_

_And by the way, can you afford that trip?_

_Why are you slurring your words?_

_Are you high on the drugs?_

_Did someone beat you to a bloody pulp?_

_Do you want me to call the police?_

_Is the other guy still alive?_

_Should I fear for my dear life?_

_Are you mentally stable?_

_Why do you smell like gasoline and ashes?_

_You're not going to throw up all over my faux-leather, are you? I just wiped it down after the weekend._

But right after he obtains an answer to the obligatory, "Where to?" the kid appears to have fallen asleep, his body propped stiffly upright, supported mostly by the seatbelt, and Maurice is left alone with his nerves.

He dries his sweaty palms against the leopard skin steering wheel cover and does his best to focus on the road. He has made his living driving drunk, obnoxious, rich kids home from parties. They scream and yell and try to hang themselves out the window despite oncoming traffic, but this is very different. This kid isn't being a nuisance; he's quite the opposite actually, and yet Maurice is taut with unease. With a quick glance up and to his right, he can check on his passenger, but that barely quells the churning of his stomach that is telling him something's not right.

About 10 minutes into the trip, the kid still hasn't moved, so Maurice rolls down his window and lights a cigarette. He keeps one eye on his rearview, and as the wind ruffles, the kid's hair, he shivers audibly and lazily opens his eyes. Maurice quickly looks ahead and feigns ignorance, vigorously puffing on his cigarette.

The unmistakable sound of a seatbelt snapping open makes his heart instantly race, and after about a half mile, he finally gathers the courage to look in his rearview.

He's so shocked at what he sees that he drops his cigarette onto the floor.

He swears in French, and reaches down by his feet to retrieve the glowing butt, stomping on the royal blue plastic carpet with the sole of his shoe, just to be safe. A staccato of car horns causes him swear again, and he glances up in time to swerve back into his own lane just barely avoiding a collision with a BMW. The enraged driver holds his hand out his sun roof, middle finger extended.

Maurice tosses the offending cigarette out the window with great disdain, and again glances in his mirror, wondering if the sleepless night had his eyes playing tricks on him.

Nope. He's sure of it.

The kid is gone. Vanished.

"_Tabernacle_," he mutters under his breath, slowing to obey a red light.

Once stopped, he takes the opportunity to turn around and look into the back without the assistance of a mirror. He peeks through the small plastic window separating him from his clients, and what he sees both relieves and scares him.

The kid didn't disappear into thin air, and he thanks God for that because if the demons were to start haunting him, he's not sure he'd ever sleep again. But there's definitely something wrong.

The kid is lying flat across the back seat, knees bent to accommodate the space. One hand is slung over his face, his fingers pressed tightly over his eyes, and the other is clutching the fabric of the T-shirt covering his stomach. There's a cut on his wrist, and a small stream of dried blood has drained from beneath the stitches. His breaths are coming quicker than they were when he was sleeping upright, and just as Maurice steels himself to ask into his passenger's well-being, another car horn snaps him to attention.

He turns around hurriedly, steps on the gas and speeds through the green light. He has no intention of looking back again for the remainder of the trip.

TBC.


	3. Chapter 2

Thanks to **muchtvs** and** Sister Rose **for their help. Sorry for the delay. I had every intention of posting earlier but I wasn't able to upload. Barring any further technical difficulties, I'llbe more prompt from now on.

For the marvelous** beachtree.**

**CHAPTER TWO**

The sun starts peeking out around 6 a.m. Seth finds a pair of sunglasses in the glove compartment, and flips them down over his eyes whenever we make an eastward turn. I choose to squint. It's helping to keep me awake.

We've hit up every spot Seth can recall ever visiting with Ryan. Places I didn't even know existed. We walk toward the diner that Seth claims is their "home base." The window displays a giant "B" assigned by the California Health Department, and I make a mental note to have them both checked for worms at their next doctor's appointment.

But the diner, like most other businesses around 6 a.m., is closed. Scheduled to open in about an hour, but I'm not sticking around to try the food. We walk around the building, because no stone will remain unturned, and then head back to the car, once again empty-handed.

"Where to now?" I ask Seth as we both methodically check our cells before doing up our seatbelts. I redundantly dial Ryan's number, hanging up as his voicemail kicks in.

From beside me, I hear "Hi, you've reached Summer…" Seth flips his phone shut with a sad sigh, pushing his head back into the plush headrest. "Ummm…maybe we need to broaden our search."

I know what he's implying, and thus far I've refused to accept the idea that Ryan might have found a way to flee the Newport bubble. But I suppose it's time. We're not getting anywhere here.

"What are you thinking?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"I'm thinking that we need to head inland, Father."

I swallow a large gulp of the lukewarm coffee. That's exactly what I was afraid of.

"Call your mother," I tell him, shifting gears and burning some rubber as we pull out of the parking lot.

* * *

Maurice growls as he crests the large hill to a sea of red brake lights. Usually he's home by this time, effectively avoiding all rush-hour traffic. He should have known better to agree to this trip at this time of day. But it had been a slow night and he could use the money to do some much-needed maintenance on his beloved cab.

The morning sun is strong and naturally attracted to the jet-black car. He fiddles with the air conditioning knob, holding his hand in front of the vent even though he knows it's a lost cause. He doesn't usually require the feature because most of his driving is done during the night, but he now regrets delaying the repair. He shifts his body and leans as far out the window as he can and prays to heaven for a breeze.

For the next twenty minutes, he glances at his watch and the running meter frequently, during which time he's sure he hasn't covered more than 2 miles. There is still no noise from the back seat, and he dreads the reason why.

"You're just doing your job…" he mutters to himself in French.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and tugs on the waistband of his favorite brown wool slacks. He knows he'll have to pull over sometime within the next ten minutes. Cursing his newfound love for the latté, he puts on his signal and wedges his way into the far right lane. Traffic is thick and he knows it's only going to get worse as he continues north and more people join in on their morning commute.

Another ten minutes passes before he can speed off onto an empty exit ramp. He finds a coffee shop at the back of a strip mall by the highway. "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu," he repeats under his breath as his bladder protests to speed bumps littering the pavement of the parking lot.

There's a spot available right outside the café, and he slams his cab to a halt just inches from the cement curb. As he pulls his keys from the ignition, he realizes he forgot to turn off the meter before taking the detour. He frowns and glances into his rearview mirror. His passenger is still nowhere in sight.

What he doesn't know won't hurt him, Maurice tells himself. He rushes as quickly as he can to the nearest bathroom.

On the way back, relieved and relaxed, he indulges in another large latté, cradling it affectionately as he leaves the café. He stops abruptly when he notices his passenger staring back at him.

The young man is sitting on the curb, leaning against the front bumper of the cab, but Maurice can't determine whether his client is angry, amused or indifferent. He doesn't want to take a chance.

"I terribly sorry, monsieur. I had a pressing matter I had to…uh…take care of." He gestures inappropriately to his crotch as if that alone should explain everything.

The kid stares back through squinted eyelids, then looks down, linking his hands behind his neck and massaging gently with his fingers.

"It no charge, of course," Maurice adds nervously. "Not on the meter."

The kid waves him off with one hand, and Maurice chooses to interpret the gesture as acceptance.

He's about to open the door to the cab, when a hoarse voice stops him. "What time is it?"

Maurice freezes, turning his gaze back to his subdued client. The young man—elbows propped upon his knees—now has his fingers wrapped around his injured wrist, rubbing his hand back and forth over an imaginary watch. The previously blue stitches are now red with fresh blood, and the sight causes Maurice's stomach to flip over.

He diverts his eyes immediately, spilling a bit of his latté as he fumbles to read his watch. "It's eight, monsieur," he responds obediently, his heart rate quickening again for no apparent reason.

"Have to be there by 9:30," the young man slurs, and Maurice nods despite the fact that the kid is still staring at the ground between his feet and has no way of observing the gesture.

"Of course, monsieur. No problem. It's not a long trip, but traffic get worse, so we must start now."

Maurice is relieved when the young man immediately rises from the curb, one hand on the hood of the car for support. There's a visible tremor in his arm—the other wrapped tightly around his chest—his eyes are cloudy and surrounded by blackish circles. His hair and T-shirt are clingy with sweat, and again, Maurice's mind drifts to the drugs. He fears he might unknowingly be stepping on the wrong side of the law.

"You're just doing your job," he tells himself in French again. He hopes he doesn't have to tell it to a judge.

The kid takes no notice. His eyes are cast downward as he lethargically climbs into the back seat. Maurice places his latté into the cup holder and starts the car, immediately switching off the meter and glancing cautiously into the mirror to see if his indiscretion had been noticed. But the passenger is already out of sight.

This time, Maurice is not concerned about the demons. He shifts into gear and heads back toward the freeway.

* * *

I adjust the vent so that the air conditioning blows in my face. It's not that hot out yet, but if nothing else, the frigid air is helping to keep me awake.

"Can you think of any place he might go to hide? Any person he might run to?" I ask Seth, glancing over briefly to make sure he's awake; it's the first time anyone has spoken in over a half hour.

"Chino's your territory, Dad. I've never gone past the 405; this is foreign land to me," he replies, staring out the window.

I choose to ignore the absurdity and lack of truth in Seth's comment. "Did he ever mention anyone or any place in particular that you can recall?"

Seth sighs dramatically. "Ryan's not so much of a talker, in case you forgot," he informs me through a stifled yawn.

"Seth, _think_, please! Help me out here!"

He turns toward me suddenly. I know I shouldn't have raised my voice but it usually has no effect on my son.

"I'm serious. I don't know, okay? I would remember if he told me something but I don't know. I don't know where to look or where to start or what he could possibly be thinking. I don't know!"

Seth's voice is high and warbling; I can tell that he's on the verge of tears. And I can't handle that right now, because that would be my fault as well and I'm just about at maximum capacity for guilt at the moment.

"I'm sorry. This has been a hard time for everyone. I know you're trying. It's just hard to tell sometimes."

My phone dances across the dashboard, but Seth answers it before I can get there.

"Mom wants to talk to you," he tells me after a short conversation with his mother.

Before I can get much of a word in, Kirsten starts talking.

"Sandy, he's not coming home. I think it's time we notified the police," she says, getting right to the point. Her words are crisp and businesslike, as if she has channeled all her occupational experience, deciding the most efficient way to deal with finding Ryan is to treat him like just another last-minute project.

"It wouldn't hurt," I agree after a few moments of contemplation. I'm actually surprised they haven't called us yet. They said they'd be by the hospital first thing in the morning after I convinced them that Ryan was in no state of mind for questioning last night. Still, I can't see them being overly helpful just yet. He's not really a suspect in the crime and he's hardly in a state to seek revenge. "They'll probably refuse to do anything until he has been missing for 24 hours," I tell her without second thought, and I recognize that I, too, am dipping into my personal bank of experience. It's familiar and comfortable and helps me forget that it's MY kid out there, ailing and wandering around aimlessly.

"But he's not mentally stable, right? I mean, medically, he's a hazard to himself. Surely they'll act faster if we can convince them that Ryan's at risk if he's alone. His doctor mentioned a psych consult. We can use that, right?"

I know what she's trying to do, and I also know that it's a lost cause. Still, I can't imagine how stir crazy and helpless she must feel trapped in that house. I can picture her running out to check the pool house and surrounding area every 10 minutes, then returning to check the house again, just in case he somehow slipped in during the minute she was out.

"It's not a bad idea, honey," I lie, knowing she'll buy into it this time because she wants so badly to do something useful. "See if you can get them out looking, too."

She seems happy with the task and promptly hangs up after encouraging me to let Seth drive so I can get some sleep. Except Seth doesn't have a clue where he's going, but I don't tell her that. It's all about the smile-and-nod today. We've got enough on our minds without including pointless arguments.

Seth has resumed his analysis of all things east of the 405, this time absently chewing on his thumbnail as well. "Maybe we should go back to his old place," he offers, wiping his thumb in his jeans before turning to look at me.

I don't know if he's trying to be more helpful after my little outburst, or if he just wants to see the infamous place where Ryan used to live.

"Because, you know, he's probably not thinking straight after…" He stops and swallows thickly, finishing his sentence quietly. "…you know, all the trauma and everything."

"You think he'd go back there?" I find it hard to believe that Ryan would want to return to that hellhole, but I'll be the first to admit that Seth probably knows a lot about Ryan's thought process than me.

"I don't know." He slumps, defeated.

"He's a pretty private guy," I say for no good reason, but Seth seems to feed off of it.

"Not private, really…just cautious."

This surprises me. "You don't think he's a private person?"

"He has revealed a lot, overall. I just don't think he believes anyone really wants to hear about it. He always apologizes after. Like he feels responsible for what was a supremely craptastic, suck-ass life."

Not how I would have put it, exactly, but he pretty much hit the nail on the head. I pull over and Seth looks at my questioningly.

"That's it," I say, pointing across the street.

"That's what?" he asks ignorantly.

"Where he lived out most of his supremely craptastic, suck-ass life."

**TBC.**


	4. Chapter 3

Lost track of time. Sorry for the delay.

Thanks to **muchtvs** and **Sisiter Rose **for all their help. I've played a bit, so every little mistake is mine and only mine.

Again, dedicated to the stellar **beachtree.**

* * *

The temperature continues to crawl up as the day gets older. It must be 20 degrees warmer here than in Newport. We've looked everywhere I can think of. Ryan's home, schools, the bus station, and the most popular local hangouts as advised by a sweet waitress who is probably too young to attend PG-rated movies alone, let alone serve food on a Monday morning. There are no signs of Ryan and no leads. When I show his picture to one of the attractive, middle-aged women working at the pool hall, her eyes light up, and for a second my chest tightens with hope. But she claims she used to know him and adds an "if you know what I mean," that makes me feel sick in more ways than one. I grab a gaping Seth by the arm and drag him out of there.My rational side knows we're in all the wrong places, but I won't be able to sleep until I'm sure I've looked everywhere. 

We stop at a convenience store, and I tell Seth to wait by the car. I grab the coldest drinks I can find and plunk them down on the dirty counter.

Just across the street, children are screaming in a schoolyard, chasing one another with make-believe guns and weapons. A small boy with bright blond hair drops to the ground, clutching an imaginary gunshot wound to the chest. He rolls in the grass and screams in fake agony, followed by fake death. The silence is short-lived as he erupts into laughter, and eventually, the perpetrator joins the victim and they wrestle half-heartedly, giggling and sweating as they bake under the sun.

I can't help but wonder whether Ryan was just like the wounded blond boy. Whether he ever allowed himself to laugh and play and simply enjoy mindless fun despite his wretched home life. Whether he pretended to shoot people and steal cars and die—before all that stuff became too much of a possibility to joke about.

"Sir?"

"Oh, right." I shake my head and apologize to the cashier, handing her a ten and telling her to keep the change. She blows a large bubble that pops and plasters pink goo over her nose and cheeks. I choose to take that as a thank you.

Outside, Seth is on the phone, tracing a pattern with his shoe in the dust that has piled up in our desolate corner of the parking lot. He flips his phone shut when I get close, lifting a hand to his brow to block out the sun.

"Who are you calling?" I pull a beer from the plastic binding and hand it to my son. Something about the exchange feels momentous, like we've just experienced a milestone or something. Seth takes it from me naturally, pops it open and takes a long sip before answering my question.

"Summer."

I nod, sitting on the curb beside him. I suspected as much. "How is she?"

He takes another sip and shrugs, folding up his long legs and resting his elbows on his knees. "I don't know. She doesn't have her phone on."

I'm not quite sure what to say. It all seems too obvious right now, like there's actually nothing left to verbalize. And I instantly think of Ryan, and wonder whether this is what every conversation feels like to him. Whether he views everyday things in the same mind-set that we require tragedy and loss to bring about.

"I thought she'd call to check on Ryan…." He takes another long sip of beer, and I fight the urge to tell him to slow down. "I don't even know if she knows he's gone."

I flinch at the word "gone," and take that as my cue to finally open my own beer. I drain a good portion in one gulp before pushing the conversation any further. "She's sad. She's devastated. She's not thinking straight. And neither are you. Don't hold this against her, Seth. We all need each other right now."

"No, I know," he says quietly, adding to the art in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. If I look closely enough, the pattern almost resembles Summer. I wonder whether he did that on purpose or whether it's just ingrained in his head—a subconscious extension of his being. "I just need to hear her voice."

It's so honest and to the point and so…unlike my son. I'd worry about him if I could. But he's alive and well enough, and I don't have room for it right now. The inn is full. One more occupant and I'm going to suffer a nervous breakdown. Seth's going to have to worry for himself.

My phone buzzes again. Kirsten gives me an update on the cops. They said they'd keep an eye out, but she concedes that I was right: they're not really going to get serious until he's missing longer. She's keeping in touch with his doctor and he has promised to call if he hears of Ryan's admittance to any of the surrounding hospitals. I tell her about our futile search, leaving out the part about the middle-aged barmaid, of course, and she urges me to come home.

We finish our beers in silence then start the drive home.

* * *

Just before the silence in the car reaches an uncomfortable level, Seth speaks up. 

"What are the chances we're going to find him today?"

I wish I had an answer to that. A ratio, a statistic, anything instead of "I don't know."

But "I don't know" it is. "It depends," I add for good measure, "whether he's just wandering around or purposely hiding. If he's hiding, I'd say 'not good.'"

Seth stops fiddling and stares blindly at a spot on the dashboard.

"What?" I ask him.

"I remember something from when Trey stayed with us last year," he says, deep in concentration. "I woke up one morning and Trey and Ryan were already in the kitchen, so let's just say I…_overheard_ them talking."

He waits for me to say something, but this is hardly the time for a lecture on eavesdropping, especially if it's going to help us find Ryan.

"And?"

"And they were talking about this tree house…no, they definitely said 'fort', that they started building behind their house when they were kids. They mentioned something about hiding in it when things got too rough. Ryan said it always bothered him that he never finished it, and that he wanted to come back with the right materials and complete the job." He looks at me with wide eyes. "Maybe he's hiding there."

I check my mirror before pulling a quick U-turn, the Beamer's tires squealing as we round the apex.

"Are we going to check it out?" he asks.

"I wouldn't overlook anything right now," I tell him honestly. "And Seth?"

He waves me off knowingly. "Yeah, yeah, I know, don't eavesdrop."

* * *

Maurice pulls up behind an endless line of taxis just as the clock embedded in his dash flashes 9:00. He leans back and smiles widely, quite satisfied. He not only made it on time, but he shaved off a whole half hour. He had to do some very unique and slightly illegal maneuvering near the end there, but he got it done. Surely he'll be tipped well. But then again, he's not sure what could possibly be expected from his mysterious client. 

He glances at his rearview and isn't surprised when he doesn't see the young man's face staring back at him.

He taps his hand of the steering wheel as he ponders his options. He tries making noise to awaken or startle his passenger. First, he starts tapping louder on the steering wheel, slowly increasing the volume until he's banging out the rhythm of his favorite polka tune with his palms. He keeps his eyes fixed on his mirror. Nothing.

Then he tries clearing his throat loudly, and again, and again until, the third time, he chokes on himself and coughs violently. When he can breathe again, he glances in his mirror. Still no sign of life in the back seat.

He contemplates his next move for a minute, watching the clock turn to 9:02. He remembers that the last time he parked the cab and went in to use the bathroom, the young man woke up on his own. Maurice figures that it's only a matter of minutes before his client comes to on his own, so he decides to wait it out. He yawns and rubs the balls of his palms over into his eyes. It has been far too long since he last slept, and the constant flow of lattés has done little to repress his exhaustion.

He sighs in frustration and glances over his shoulder and through the plastic shield, confirming that his passenger is still asleep, though in a different position than last time. He's slightly angled on his side, his cheek stuck to the faux-leather with a thin layer of sweat. Both arms are wrapped loosely around his midsection; the stained black t-shirt he's wearing has ridden up to reveal an angry black bruise across abdomen. Upon observing this, Maurice turns around quickly, feeling like an intruder in his own car.

After a few minutes of staring into his mirror and struggling to stay awake, he decides that waiting with his eyes shut is just as effective as waiting with them open.

* * *

The small white house is boarded up at the doors and windows, garbage strewn throughout the fenced yard. We immediately work our way to the back, where there's another fence, padlocked shut. Seth jumps up and over with little effort, barely stumbling on the other side. That's another thing I'm sure Ryan's responsible for: teaching Seth how to climb fences without falling on his face, because it certainly wasn't me. Sure enough, my pants catch on the triangular wire lining the top of the fence, and I cringe at the sound of tearing material. I fall onto my hands and knees on the other side. 

"Real smooth, Dad," Seth says without turning around as he makes his way to the line of trees at the back of the lot.

I appraise the damage, and decide that I can live with the two-inch tear along my inseam, assuming I don't tear out the entire ass of my pants on the way out.

The trees are all growing into each other, more like a forest arrangement than something someone would plant in their backyard. I see no sign of a "fort," just overgrown bush and grass. Seth's already squeezing between two pines, swearing as the needles prick his fingers. I stay close, waiting for word on what's behind.

"It's here," he says quietly, and then fully disappears into the trees. I follow cautiously, holding my hands up in front of my face to protect my eyes from the branches as they swing back from Seth.

The fort is hardly a structure. A large piece of plywood, that I assume is the floor, sticks out from under the walls. The walls themselves are just two-by-fours standing upright, bottoms buried in the ground, with layers of cardboard nailed up between them. The cardboard is water-stained and rotted, but under the protection of the trees, has held up fairly well. Around what I would consider to be the front of the structure, a thick piece of Styrofoam acts as a door. Seth slides it back and peeks his head inside.

He crouches down and steps inside. I do my best to follow without breaking anything. Seth is looking around in awe, and it's like he has forgotten the purpose of this trip. No Ryan, I observe.

"This is awesome," Seth says, nodding as he takes in every little detail. The walls are covered in drawings and notes—one, I notice, is a red heart with the letters "R+T" scrawled inside. Seth looks awestruck as he runs his hands over the cardboard and reads some of the notes. I almost remind him that he, too, had a fort as a kid. It was called "The Pool House," and it had running water and everything. But, clearly, pool house is trumped by cardboard, Styrofoam and two-by-fours.

He has his one eye pressed up against the wall and turns back to show me what he has discovered. "You can see right into the back yard of that house," he explains, pointing out the "front door."

I take a turn looking through, and sure enough, the tube must travel through the bush and into a link in the fence, because you can see a good chunk of the neighbor's back yard.

"That's Theresa's old place," I tell him.

Seth looks half amazed and half sad at this revelation. It's easy to forget how devastated Seth was when Ryan left us that summer, and I know he still blames Theresa for taking his best friend away. Really, it's a two-way street, and I can see Theresa harboring the same feelings toward Seth, but I have no desire to remind him of that.

"I don't know why he does stuff like that," Seth says, gesturing toward Theresa's old home, then sitting on the dirty floor between two stacks of damp magazines, crossing his knees.

"Like what?" I ask, even though I'm almost sure he's referring to Ryan's decision to come back and live with Theresa. But I don't want to assume anything. Best not open that can of worms if I don't have to.

"Like leaving us to go take care of a baby he didn't know was his. Like risking going back to juvie because his brother needed money. Like almost getting kicked out of school because he wanted proof Oliver was a psycho Like walking out of the of hospital in the middle of the night."

I take a seat across from Seth; the dirt doesn't bother me. These pants are going in the garbage anyway.

"Ryan doesn't do anything halfway," I remind him, deciding not to ask questions about the "juvie" part just yet. But I'll remember later, that's for sure.

"Sort of like how he regrets not finishing this place," Seth adds absently, still admiring the decrepit little getaway.

I nod. "It almost makes him predictable, in a strange way."

Seth gives a small snort and shakes his head. "Obviously not that predictable."

"Maybe not," I agree. "But he always follows through. Consequences be damned"

"So what was so important that he had to do it at five this morning despite everything that happened last night?" Seth asks thoughtfully.

"Maybe it wasn't in spite of everything. Maybe it was because of everything," I answer, because I don't believe for a second that Ryan's disappearance is in any way unrelated to what he has just gone through.

Seth links his hands together and rolls his thumbs slowly over one another. He thinks in silence for what seems like an eternity. "How out of it was Ryan last night, the last time you saw him?"

I ponder the question. Aside from the forgotten word, Ryan really didn't seem all that disoriented, but in all honesty, he wasn't communicating much, so there's a chance he was quite confused. "It's hard to know. I wouldn't say he was completely lucid by any means, but he didn't say much of anything that would have convinced me one way or the other. But then there's the clock…"

"What clock?"

I explain how, on Ryan's bed, beside the folded hospital gown, I found a clock that had obviously been removed from the wall while I was sleeping. I naturally assumed it was Ryan. No one else seemed to want to take credit for it.

Seth stares straight ahead in silence for another minute or so. Finally, he looks at me with a sad, tired expression. "I think I know where he is."

TBC.

I'd love to hear from you if you're still reading.


	5. Chapter 4

**Thanks to Sister Rose and muchtvs for all their help.**

**All mistakes are mine and mine alone.**

**I appreciateyou allsticking with me. I'm getting there. I promise.

* * *

**

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Dad, stop!"

I slam on the brakes and pull onto the shoulder, clouds of dust billowing out from under the car, obscuring any sort of view.

"What?"

Seth turns his palms upward, eyes widened and mouth slack in a _what-the-fuck-are-you-doing?_ sort of way. "Where are you going?"

I bite my tongue to suppress the sigh that I know will turn into an endless string of yawns. "I thought we already discussed this?"

Seth stares at me in confusion then shakes his head suddenly. "No, Dad. Wrong one. Head west, good father."

"You know what?" I shift the car into park on the shoulder, the dust now subsided letting the sun back in through the windows. "I'm going to let you drive."

Seth falls back into his seat, shoulders slumped forward. "God, don't take it personally…."

"No, Seth," I start louder than I need to speak. I lower my voice before continuing. "I need just…20 minutes of sleep, that's all."

"Oh," he says sheepishly, unbuckling himself and casting me unsure, tentative glances before getting out of the car.

It's like the admission alone has made the exhaustion insurmountable, and as soon as we start moving—Seth at the wheel, and as he always does under the supervision of a parent, hands at ten and two—my eyelids become unbearably heavy.

It's too easy to ignore the buzzing against my leg, but Seth grabs my arm and gives it a shake.

"Dad. Your phone," he says quite loudly, and I have to wonder whether he has already tried to wake me a few times before this.

When I realize what's happening, I dig into my pocket as quickly as possible.

"Hello?"

"Um…Sandy?"

Kirsten's speaking so softly that I have to stick my hand over my other ear so in order to hear her clearly. Seth turns off down the low drone of the background music before I continue. "Yes."

"Is Seth with you?"

"Yes." I have to stop myself from saying, "Right beside me" because that question means she doesn't want him to hear, and with the revelation of my son's expert eavesdropping skills, it's best not to draw any extra attention to the call.

"Um…Sandy?"

"Yes, Kirsten, what is it?" My heart has started to pound, making it even more difficult to understand her soft words. I so badly want to hear that Ryan's home, but the way she's introducing the topic makes me almost wish otherwise.

She's whispering now and I close my eyes so that all of my senses are focused solely on listening. "Summer's here. Neil brought her over. She's a mess, Sandy, and she wants to see Seth. I don't know what to tell her. I don't want to upset her further. How far away are you?"

I run my hand over my forehead and rub my fingers against the tight skin. "There's been a change in plans," I tell her. "There's just one more place we want to check. We probably won't be home for another couple hours at least."

I don't go into details because, really, there are none to give. It's just a hunch—a wild shot in the dark—and I don't want to get her hopes up.

"Oh," Kirsten says. She must place her hand over the phone because I can only make out muffled words as she speaks to someone else in the room.

"Do you think she'll come to the phone?" I offer when the sounds are crisp again.

"I don't know, Sandy. She's so…she's not making much sense. Nothing we say seems to calm her down." There's a pause and then, "I'll ask her."

I glance over at Seth, who seems more concerned with finding a way into the far left lane than deciphering my conversation.

"Okay," Kirsten says suddenly. "Put Seth on the phone."

"One second." I cover the receiver and hold the phone out to Seth. "Seth? Summer wants to talk to you."

He turns to look at me quickly, then back at the road, then back at me again, slowly reaching out with his right hand to accept the phone from my hand.

I shut my eyes again and lean back into the headrest, turning my face toward the passenger-side window. This is the closest he's going to get to privacy right now.

* * *

Seth is on the phone with Summer for the better part of a half hour. I make a sincere effort to follow my own advice about eavesdropping—closing my eyes and willing sleep to swing by and take me out of this awkward position—but when it's your kid, it's just too hard not to "overhear" certain things.

One name keeps wiggling its way into my conscious mind. The one name I've made a distinct effort not to say out loud today. The one name that Seth has not even whispered since we first heard the news last night. It's the one time that I can honestly say denial is keeping us somewhat sane.

But Summer is saying it, screaming it, crying it, over and over again, and every time she yells or whimpers those three syllables, a sickening pain shoots through my stomach. Near the end of the call, I know that if I hear it one more time, I'm going to have to ask Seth to pull over because it's the one thing that I can't take on top of everything else. The realization that the life of a girl too young and too beautiful and too close to my own family has been stripped away. A mere pebble or rock or slight wind could have made the outcome doubly as tragic, and—as unbelievable as it may seem right now—a million times more devastating for me.

Seth doesn't say much, but what he does say adds to the sickening pain in my stomach.

"She didn't suffer."

"She loved you."

"She died with Ryan."

I'm not sure what Summer mumbles to prompt that last line out of Seth, but it hits me like a punch to the gut and keeps hitting long after the initial blow. I don't hear any of the rest of their conversation, and whether or not Summer cries those three syllables again is beyond my knowledge, because I'm hanging onto the door handle with every ounce of strength I have, concentrating only on breathing slowly and deeply, waiting until the phone clicks shut before I calmly ask him to pull over.

I don't know whether he keeps looking at me questioningly or doesn't take my request seriously, but even with my eyes closed, I can tell we've traveled a good mile or so before gravel cracks and pops under the tires and the Beamer rolls to a stop.

I get out swiftly and walk around the back of the car, leaning over with my palms resting just above my knees. I'm scared and surprised by the sound of my breathing, short and quick and almost raspy. A car door opens and then slams shut behind me.

"Dad?"

The gravel rolls beneath Seth's sneakers as he gets closer. But he doesn't say anything else. I'm almost disappointed when my stomach stops flipping because something has got to give. I need a release. An outlet.

At least Seth didn't have to witness that.

When I open my eyes, I see his shoes—legs stretched out with one foot crossed over the other. Breathing deeply and somewhat steadily, I push myself upright and turn around. Seth angles his chin away from me quickly and runs his hand under his nose, blinking three times quickly. His jaw twitches and then hardens, a sign he's setting his emotions—gaining control.

I sit down on the bumper beside him and stare down at my hands. We enjoy the traffic-tainted silence for a while. There are questions I want to ask as I'm sure there are some he's biting back, but neither of us says anything for a long time. The humid breeze helps my chest and stomach relax. Despite the great allure of what we need to find, I'm in no rush to get back in that car at the moment.

I take out my phone and absently dial Ryan's number, my fingers quickly punching in the pattern on the keypad like second nature. My thumb rests on the "end" button as I put the phone to my ear, ready to terminate the call as soon as I hear the familiar hiss of his voicemail kicking in.

I nearly slip into cardiac arrest when the line starts ringing.

* * *

Maurice is jolted awake by a blaring horn. His entire body jolts at the noise, his knee catching on the cup holder, causing the cold remains of his latte to spill down his right pant leg.

"Ah, merde!" he snarls, trying to brush off the liquid that has already seeped down his leg and into his sock. He shakes the sticky liquid off his fingers, giving up with a sigh and simply wiping them on his already soiled pants.

There's a sudden knocking and Maurice jumps again when he sees a figure looming outside his window.

"Buddy, you gotta move up. We're backed up onto the road here!"

Maurice then sees the large expanse of empty curb in front of him, and in his side mirrors, the line of cabs and buses that winds out for as far as the eye can see. They very well could have pulled out in front of him but it's an unwritten rule in the taxi world: don't ever steal a fare from someone who has been waiting longer.

Frazzled and more than a little disoriented, Maurice nods and apologizes in broken English, starting his cab immediately.

And then he remembers. The long drive. The traffic. Falling asleep. The mysterious client.

He's instantly queasy, the familiar knot tightening in his stomach.

The battered, potentially high and criminal young man. Is he still in the cab? And if so, is he still alive? Is he hiding from someone? Is Maurice unknowingly participating in some sort of "take down" or "deal" as he has often seen in reruns of Cops?

He parks the cab up near the front of the line, closes his eyes, and slowly counts to 10.

"...neuf, dix," he finishes out loud. Slowly, he turns around in his seat and looks through the plastic window.

Empty. Completely, totally, empty. The young man isn't on the seat, or the floor, for that matter—he's gone.

Maurice swears out loud, slamming his hand off the steering wheel. He'd fallen asleep and lost the biggest fare he'd earned since he moved to this area. He looks back again, searching the seats for any sign of payment. Nothing.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and slowly climbs out of the car, less nervous and more tired now that the adrenaline has worn off. He opens the door and analyzes the back seat, unable to accept that he'd been had so easily.

There's still no sign of money, but a flash of silver catches his eye. Something shiny is peeking out from underneath the front passenger seat. He climbs into the cab on his knees and crawls over to investigate, the wet fabric of his pants squeaking obscenely against the faux-leather material. When he gets close enough, he is able to determine that the object is a cell phone.

He reaches out to grab it but stops just before his fingers make contact, pulling his arm back quickly like he'd been burned.

Suddenly, the adrenaline is back.

Oh no, he thinks to himself, this is a "seed." He's being set up. He's sure of it.

He's going down.

Someone's turning him into a suspect for some unthinkable crime.

He should have just gone home. He should never have gone against his instincts and agreed to the lengthy, expensive trip. God's punishing him for his greed.

He looks around, searching the faces of those wandering the sidewalk outside the building for any sign of suspicion. Sunglasses, he reminds himself. Look for people with sunglasses. People who wear sunglasses are always up to no good. But no one is wearing sunglasses, and no one appears to be paying him any more attention than usual.

He laughs nervously and tells himself he's being ridiculous. "It's just a simple mistake," he says in French, and then he notices that a woman walking by the cab is staring at him strangely, but he realizes that it's probably because he's crawling around on his hands and knees in wet pants, talking to himself in a foreign language. This doesn't worry him.

He takes a deep breath and hesitantly grabs the phone from the floor, handling it between index and thumb as if it might explode. He sits back onto his heels and evaluates the object thoroughly, gently turning it over in his palm several times.

In a moment of braveness, he flips it open and—once he's sure it's not going to explode—turns it on. The screen displays the time and missed calls as any normal phone would do. He smiles at his silly, unwarranted fears. It's just a phone. A harmless object left behind by accident.

Maurice nearly slips into cardiac arrest when the object in his hands comes to life.

TBC.

**Thanks so much for reading.**


	6. Chapter 5

Big thanks to **beachtree** for her help with this. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.

**

* * *

**

I never in a million years suspected that the sound of a ringing phone could have such a physiological impact on a person's body. A burst of energy sends shocks of stimulation through my legs. The hair on the back of my neck stands up on end. My mouth dries up and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

Reflexively, I start to count.

One ring to panic and hope and pray that my heart keeps beating.

Two to gesture wildly to Seth that something is different, that we actually might have stumbled upon a credible lead instead of the misguided guesses and assumptions that we've been clinging to all morning.

Three to stagger onto my feet and jump back into the driver's seat—suddenly not so tired, but completely unsure of my destination given the change of events.

By the fourth ring—before I can turn the key in the ignition—the ringing stops, and so does my breathing.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

Eight heartbeats before anything is said.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. The flashing colon separating the hour from the minutes on the dashboard clock blinks six times.

Four rings, eight heartbeats, and six flashing seconds before anyone speaks. And when there finally is a voice on the other end of the line, all those things are suddenly forgotten.

Because the voice on the other end is definitely not Ryan.

"Who _is_ this?"

* * *

"Allo?"

Maurice pulls the phone away from his ear and stares suspiciously at the receiving end.

"Allo?" he says again, louder this time. He knows someone's there; he can hear rapid breathing.

"Who _is_ this?" the voice responds.

Maurice scrambles backwards out of the car. He can feel eyes on him; burning a hole through his plaid shirt. He scans the crowd as people meander in and out of the automatic glass doors. Unfortunately, over half of them are holding a cell phone to one ear while trying to drag overloaded trolleys behind them with the other.

But none of them are looking at him. His mind is playing tricks on him again. He needs to take control. He can either wimp out, hang up, throw the phone away, and drive away as fast as he can, or he can man-up, demand some respect, find his delinquent escapee, and force him to pay up.

"Who's talking?" Maurice finally demands, sticking his chest out to muster confidence.

"What? No…who _are_ you? Why do you have Ryan's phone?"

* * *

A newfound sense of hope, urgency and deeply-rooted confusion assaults me when I hang up my phone. And before I can process anything, try to fit any of the pieces together, I am bombarded.

Seth takes a deep breath and fires out a string of undivided questions. Some of which pertain to the situation at hand, others completely irrelevant. I wait until he has run out of air before I convey the limited information I was able to obtain from the strange, foreign man who kept proclaiming his innocence. From what? I have on idea. I'm not sure I want to find out.

When I'm done explaining, Seth crosses his arms over his chest and nods triumphantly, his lips forming a tight, smug smile.

"Told you so," he says. And really, he didn't have to, because his body language says it all, morphing from grief-stricken to conceit in an instant.

"Yeah, well, we still don't really know _where_ he is. Only where he was last spotted."

I don't know why I'm even pursuing an argument over this. More than anything, I want Seth to be right. I don't want to continue this wild goose chase for any longer than I have to. I want to find Ryan, take him home…or back to the hospital…regardless, he'll be in my care under unyielding surveillance. And then we can start this healing process—the delay of which is burning holes through all of our stomachs.

I don't think I've ever driven so fast in my entire life. Not when an in-utero Seth was threatening to make his entrance to the world in my backseat, not when my brother was gripping a gaping barbecue-utensil-related wound on his arm, not even when Kirsten called me on my way home from work explaining, in detail, the ways she was going to celebrate my birthday when I arrived—a personal record I thought I'd never own a nice enough car to break.

And for once, I have a legitimate answer to my mother's question, "When are you _ever_ going to need all that horsepower?"

* * *

Maurice holds the phone tightly in his right hand as he navigates his way through the crowd. The angry man on the other line had seemed more than eager to pay the outstanding fare—and then some—if Maurice could hold up his end of the bargain. All he had to do was find the runaway client, and keep him within eyesight until this mysterious man arrived.

When passing through the loud groups of reunited friends and families, he lifts the phone up closer to his ear, afraid of missing the all-important ring he's supposed to be waiting for.

Find the kid. Answer the phone. Take the money, and go home.

Maurice figured his job couldn't be too hard. Answering the phone would be easy, of course, but finding the kid could prove to be challenging. However, after a quick survey of his surroundings, he determines that, amidst all the happy travelers and well-dressed business people, the kid should be easy to spot.

He doesn't anticipate a 30 minute power walk and pushy pedestrians. He glances at his watch, then the phone, and wipes the condensation from his brow. He has walked the floor twice, stopping to ask several employees if they've seen anyone matching the kid's description. No one claims they've seen him. This Ryan is quite the magician, Maurice thinks to himself.

When the phone rings—louder than he thought it would sound in the crowd—he leaps into the air, falling back into an old lady using a walker. She makes some threats in English that Maurice is almost sure involve his ass and a mallet.

The phone is slippery in his sweaty palms, but he manages to flip it open after three or four futile tries.

"We're here," the man says.

We? Maurice rubs a hand over his churning stomach. He never agreed to meet more than one person. What if they…what if they…? And when he can't think of anything they could possibly want with him, his exhausted mind gives up on nervousness and tries to focus on translating his thoughts into comprehensible English.

"Where are you?" the man asks quickly, before Maurice can form a decent sentence.

"I'm by the café…ahhhh…Starbucks," he corrects himself, spinning a 180, the constant search for his mark taking full priority. Still no sign of the ragged kid.

"We got you." The line is cut off immediately, and Maurice's hand moves up from his stomach to his heart. Before he can even dream up all the wild ways in which he's about to be tortured, a hand taps him on the shoulder. He spins with a gasp, eyes wide with fear.

But the two people standing before him are hardly what he was expecting. They barely look like they're capable of skinning a chicken, let alone killing a human being.

"You?" Maurice stutters. "You're…_the man?_"

The younger of the two lets out an incredulous laugh, but it's short-lived. "That's one for the books."

The older man appears to nod in agreement, taking in a deep breath and letting it out through his nostrils. He extends his hand. "Sandy Cohen."

Maurice looks from the hand to the man, to the boy and then back to the hand before accepting the shake.

"Maurice."

"Yes, you mentioned that on the phone," this Sandy replies dryly. If Maurice couldn't see the man in front of him, he'd be scared by such a response. But now he recognizes that the monotonous speech is not an attempt to intimidate, but instead the result of exhaustion, anxiety and strain, each of the stressors expressing themselves through the man's eyes, posture, and rumpled clothing. "This is my son," Sandy adds as an afterthought, gesturing to the fidgety boy beside him with a tilt of the chin.

Maurice nods to both of them, more than aware of the solemn, almost sad air about them.

"I take it you haven't found Ryan."

Maurice isn't sure whether it's a question or an observation, so he starts to shake his head and then changes to a nod.

The boy's forehead wrinkles as he observes this, and he looks over to his father, who holds up a hand, shuts his eyes and gives a very subtle head shake as if to beg his son not to say anything.

"I look everywhere," Maurice elaborates. "Many times back and forth. Asking people. No one remembers him."

Sandy pulls out his phone, flips it open and then shuts it again almost immediately. He glances around the large area with a loud sigh, one hand running through his messy hair.

When no one has spoken for longer than Maurice can stand, he speaks up. "Uh…maybe he fly away." He illustrates his point by flapping his arms up and down at his sides, still quite unsure of how his English translates.

"Oh this is just too much," the younger one says, trying to hide the smile that has spread across his face by staring down at his restless feet.

Sandy ignores this comment from his son, whatever it means.

"He doesn't have that much money…or a passport. Besides, that's not why he's here." He stares blankly into the crowd for a few seconds, then shakes him self back to reality. "Do you have a phone?"

Maurice slowly raises his hand, suddenly unsure, holding up the silver object that he'd been clutching to like a life line for the past hour.

"Right. Of course," Sandy says, running a hand over his face. "This place is too big. We're going to have to split up, each search a different section."

Maurice nods earnestly, a rush of adrenaline surging through his chest. He feels like he's in a motion picture, searching for treasures of gold and jewels. "Bathrooms are important. People always hide in bathrooms," he says without much thought.

The younger one's face contorts into a look of confusion, disgust and more than a little bit of amusement.

Sandy reaches over and places a hand on his son's shoulder, as if to restrain him. "I was thinking more, like we each take a terminal," Sandy clarifies.

Maurice tries to swallow the lump of embarrassment that instantly lodges itself in his throat. "Of course," he grunts, looking down at his hands which are working the phone back and forth between his sweaty fingers.

Sandy goes about distributing the terminals amongst the three of them, and Maurice tries to think up creative ways in which to remember his assignment. "Two, tomato. Four, flamingo."

The young one is staring at him again. Maurice feels himself blush deeply, continuing to repeat the sayings only in the privacy of his own head.

With final instructions to call is they see or hear of anything relevant, they split, all going their separate ways.

Before I am even halfway across the parking lot that separates the starting point from my self-assigned terminals, my phone buzzes.

A thousand thoughts race through my head as I struggle to get the phone to my ear. _Have they found him already? It's too soon; don't get your hopes up. Maybe someone has seen him. Maybe Maurice is lost…or has come to his senses and realizes that searching for a kid he just happened to give a ride to is way beyond the call of duty. But then again, Maurice doesn't appear to have much "sense." _

"Hello?"

"I…I don't even know what to say," Seth says, forgoing a greeting of any kind, and I know he's not talking about Ryan or his search or anything we've been through today.

"Just…just find Ryan, Seth."

"I'm working on it. But before we leave here today, I'm getting that guy's number for entertainment purposes."

* * *

Maurice walks smack dab in the middle of the aisle, head on a swivel, eyes scanning for any sign of a black T-shirt, messy blond hair, stained jeans, defeated posture.

He walks the aisle twice, approached three times by people in uniform, asking if there's anything they can help him with. Each time, he describes the young man he's looking for, but as soon as they realize he's not in the market for a last-minute flight, their eyes glaze over and they politely excuse themselves.

Before he does a final scan, he finds a café and orders a large latté. The steamy froth burns his tongue, causing him to curse his love for the latté under his breath.

"Colis…."

A very pretty, uniformed lady turns her head, her perfectly made-up, bright blue eyes narrowing in disgust. Maurice bites the inside of his cheek when he catches the "Air France" badge attached to her lapel. He'd gotten so used to his French curses flying under the radar of his fellow citizens that he'd developing quite the loose tongue.

He waves apologetically and quickly flees her presence, finding a spot outside of the café where he can lean against a bar counter and blow the steam off his latté.

It's then, when he's paying the least attention, that he sees it.

Across the hallway and behind a sea of people and luggage, this Ryan kid is sitting the last chair in a string of chairs. Even though his face is hidden—buried in his hands, fingers causing tuffs of hair to poke up at unnatural angles—Maurice is positive it's him. Obviously, others are also wary of him, because there's a large group of older ladies who have chosen to stand with their luggage rather than sit within three chairs of him.

Maurice fumbles to get the lid back on his latté, placing it on the bar counter as he tries to recall his instructions. He can't remember whether he was supposed to approach the subject or stay at a distance. He opts for the latter. Call. He was only told to call. Call as soon as he saw or heard.

He pulls the wrinkled piece of paper out of his pocket and balances it on the screen of the phone as he dials Sandy's number.

"What?" Sandy answers, snapping impatiently.

Maurice's breath hitches and for a second he feels exactly how he did when he received that first call in the back of his cab.

"Seth?" The voice doesn't sound quite as irritated now.

It takes him a second, but Maurice eventually remembers the purpose of his call.

"The boy! I found the boy!" he yells out.

There are some looks, but he ignores them in his excitement.

"You found Ryan? Where are you?"

Maurice looks around for a landmark. "Café…uh…Starbucks," and then wonders just how many Starbucks must be scattered around the airport if he has already been in two.

"No, _where_?" Sandy presses, sounding impatient again. "Which terminal?"

"Uh…tomato…two."

"Don't move. I'm coming."

TBC

* * *

_Thanks a million for reading. I'mhoping I'll be able to post again very soon._


	7. Chapter 6

So I didn't make my deadline. But I'm sort of glad I didn't because now I'm not rushed. As a result -- and I don't know whether you'll think this is good or bad -- this story's going to be a little longer than I anticipated.

Humongo thanks to** muchtvs **for her constant support (and I mean _constant _-- she's always there when you need her) and to **loracj2** and **beachtree** for their super helpful beta jobs. What wonderful substitute betas I have. I did fiddle a bit, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Also dedicated to the fantabulous **beachtree.** (Aren't I nice, making her beta her own story?)

* * *

I am forced to stop three separate times before I can scramble back across the terminal parking lot and locate the big green and white sign that screams "Starbucks."

The first time, a car slams on the brakes as I run blindly into the direct line of traffic. Go figure, the one time I don't look both ways…. Of course, hearing the squealing of rubber gliding across pavement, the car coming in the other direction also comes to an abrupt halt. I hold my hands up in front of me in a makeshift apology, backing away quickly as the man behind the thick windshield animatedly expresses just how pleased he is with me.

By the time both cars move on, letting me cross the roadway, I've managed to catch my breath to a certain degree. But the running starts again and it's not long before my lungs are screaming in the most painful of protests—one that began when I decided the elevator wouldn't be fast enough and opted for the stairs.

The second delay is caused by the buzzing. I second-guess my senses at first, assuming a strong breeze has just flapped my pants against my leg, but the second buzz is stronger, and I am forced to break stride again and retrieve my phone from my pocket.

A small child mistakes me for a lamppost or something, and skips around me in a merry little circle, pulling her bright-pink, Barbie suitcase behind her, the plastic wheels roaring loudly against the pavement. It's probably for the best that I don't have the breath to communicate, because I'm sure a few tears would be shed—on her part, of course. When she starts singing—_screeching_—"Ring Around the Rosie," I have to fight, with every fiber of my moral being, not to stick my foot out to give her a better view of the pavement. Fortunately, her mother grabs her hand and drags her away—kicking and screaming—but she still manages to belt out the last few words of her insipid song. It's only then that I'm able to make out the sound of the voice chatting away on the other end of my phone; obviously completely oblivious to my inattention.

"…might have had a point, you know. I actually looked in the bathrooms. Got a strange look from the guy at the urinal when I bent to see if there were any feet in the stalls, but whatever. I could have taken him. Well, probably not, but he was halfway to midgetville, so I'm pretty confident I could have outrun him."

"Seth?"

"Yep?"

Casual. As if there's nothing at stake here. As if I'm not wasting precious seconds by standing here on the sidewalk, waiting for him to shut the hell up, trying not to let my mind wander into those dark places that are harboring thoughts of what _could_ be happening to Ryan at this very moment.

"_Why_ are you calling?"

"Because I don't know what to do now—where to go."

He says it like he has told me already—perhaps twice—and once again I curse that little girl and all her pink accessories for monopolizing my hearing.

"Terminal two. By the Starbucks. I think we've got him."

Silence. Seth doesn't say anything for a second, and then at all. The only response is the click of the line cutting off. By this point, I'm already weaving my way through the crowds that have gathered outside the large front of glass doors. My coordination and motor skills are put to the test as I navigate my way around and over the luggage and duffel bags that are haphazardly strewn across the walkway. I'm almost surprised when I make it through the obstacle course without falling on my face.

_Almost_ surprised.

Because I'm not ten feet inside the building before I'm flying through the air, hands extended in front of me, eyes squeezed shut, chin rudely introduced to the rock-hard floor with a jarring crack.

"Oh my God!"

I'm not sure, but I might be on fire.

Heels click like a barrage of bullets, until it feels like the sound is going to crawl into my ears. At least the deafening buzz would have company.

"Sir? Oh…oh no…."

I clench my jaw, opening and shutting my mouth a few times before forcing my eyelids apart.

Funny…I could have sworn the floor was white before.

"Oh my god, you're bleeding. You're bleeding. You're _bleeding!_" Her voice gets louder and shriller every time she repeats herself. Someone should really offer her a bullhorn because it's obvious that her goal is to burst open my eardrums as well.

And I just can't take it anymore, because it seems the more fucked up this all gets—the deeper I slip into an exhausted stupor, and the thinner my patience gets—the more annoying imbeciles I attract.

It takes some effort to roll over so that I'm no longer laying face-first on a marble floor. I lean my weight on my left shoulder, reaching up with the opposite hand to touch the numbed area. Sure enough, the tips of my fingers come away the same color of the floor. It's only then that I realize it's not the color of the floor on me, it's the color of me on the floor.

"Oh fuck," I groan, shaking the stars from my eyes, then attempting to stand up. There are hands at my elbows, helping me. When I'm on my feet again, finally summoning the courage to look up, I see that I'm surrounded by a circle of people at least ten deep, and face-to-face with a girl—no older than 25—who's swiping the most uncalled-for tears from her cheeks.

"I'm so…sorry," she chokes out, holding a manicured hand in front of her bright red lips.

You've_ got_ to be fucking kidding me.

Perhaps I look like I'm going to kill her. I don't know; I've lost all control of my façades. But she cowers backwards, turning into the outstretched arms of a kid who can't be out of his teens. He's too excited to hide the satisfied grin that spreads across his face when the dramatic twit turns to him for comfort.

I'm so glad I could be of service.

"Here." A man in uniform hands me a small white towel. "Put some pressure on that. You might need a stitch or two."

He starts to guide my hand up to my face, but my brain takes over halfway there, following his instructions obediently on my own.

It barely hurts. In fact, I can't feel that area of my face at all.

"It's fine," I assure the guy, holding my hand up in front of my face when he leans in to get a closer look. "It doesn't hurt. I'm fine."

It's then that my thoughts finally settle—the dust clears—and I'm capable of focusing on what's important. But before I start to push my way through the wall of people who have gathered for the show—the twit playing more than a supporting role as she clings to the starry-eyed teenager—I turn to the closest witness and ask, "What did I fall over?"

The man points a chubby finger to a large round purse at the feet of the wailing twit. "I believe you tripped over that lady's rat dog's suitcase or sumtin'."

I'm barely able to make out the fact that the "rat dog" is wearing clothes before I turn on my heel, exiting the circle, leaving only a small puddle of my blood behind as evidence.

I can hear someone calling after me, shouting something about getting my face looked at by the medic, but I don't have time to listen to this guy try to talk his way out of a lawsuit.

I'll think about suing them later. Just for kicks.

By weaving in and out of groups of people, I can effectively disappear.

In the distance I can make out the latter part of a Starbuck's sign, and I zero in on it—daring someone, _anyone,_ to get in my bloody way.

"Dad?"

To my left, Seth is jogging across the deep hallway, his face screwed up with a million questions his brain can't prioritize.

"Don't ask," I threaten. And, at the sound of my own voice, I'm not surprised when Seth throws up his hands in a declaration of surrender.

I've officially made a decision: this ends here. Now.

I really don't think I can take anymore. This has to be it.

As we get closer, my eyes start to burn from the intense scanning. Maurice. Ryan. Either or. At this point, I can't be picky. I have to remind myself to blink. And I do so as soon as I spot the familiar sight of the stained brown pants, and too-tight plaid shirt.

He's slouched on a bar stool, his eyes trained straight ahead as if watching a movie on the big screen while casually sipping a coffee. I have never considered myself a violent man, but I can think of more than a few ways to hurt him right now.

When I realize that I can skip a step, I change direction sharply, walking in congruence with Maurice's sight line.

"Dad, where are you going? He's right there…." Seth runs up beside me, sounding a little frazzled now. And personally, I can't blame him. At this moment, I barely recognize myself. I don't think I've ever been this committed to a mission. This determined. This raw.

I split a group of travelers in half, and then another, and then I stop.

Dead in my tracks.

Stalled. Hit the wall.

The sight in front of me forces me to feel again—think again. Dragging with it an overwhelming sense of reality.

My chin throbs. My chest aches. Bones cry out in the deepest form of exhaustion.

And it's not just because I've finally found him. It's not just because he's actually within reach.

It's because this is exactly how I found him last night. Like someone had taken a picture in the trauma room, then cut and pasted Ryan into this environment.

And with the pain and exhaustion comes the flood of relief, identical to that of the one that washed over me when I realized the one child who didn't make it, the one who wasn't quite so lucky, was not the one I call my own.

I leave Seth behind, taking a few steps forward, catching and ignoring the warning glances from a group of elderly women who are nervously clutching their purses to their chests as I pass them by.

The uncanny reproduction of last night causes a shiver to bolt from my head to my toes.

The way he's sitting, with his forehead pressed up against his palms, fingers snaking through his hair, dried blood coloring his left wrist, the wound—which I'm positive was closed up with a line of blue stitches—is open again and bleeding sluggishly just like it was when I found him last night. The only glaring difference is this time there's no one else around him—no nurse by his side, trying desperately to coax him into a prone position.

His thin T-shirt is using sweat as an adhesive to cling to his body. His shoulders are hunched forward, making him look more like an old man than a teenager who was supposed to be celebrating one of the best nights of his life.

I bend over in front of him—unable to fight the allure of having history repeat itself. And when it goes further, I feel like I'm no longer living this moment. Instead, I'm standing far away, watching it all unfold—a documentary that I never wanted to see again.

Then he says it. The same thing he said to me when I crouched in front of him last night. Spoken the same way, his body staying completely still as he utters the stunted words, each of them separated by a subtle hitch of his breath.

"She didn't make it."

And that's where the similarities stop. I'm returned to my body, allowed to live again—to act as if I've never been here before. Because, even though the words are the same—the posture, the clothes, the voice—everything about what he says is different.

It's not a statement. Not this time. This time, it's a question.

As much as I want to answer, I can't quite connect with his train of thought. I can't locate the exact origin of his inquiry. Is he here, or is he still living in the past? Is he referring to Marissa's life? Or the flight he wanted so desperately for her to take because that would mean she's alive? Away, but alive.

And then I realize that no matter what he's asking, there's only one right answer.

"No," I tell him softly.

Ryan's eyelashes flutter, and without moving his head, he looks up at me, bruises now a rainbow of blues and blacks and yellows, darker and more pronounced than when I saw him last. His eyes are cloudy and bloodshot and somehow separated from this place in front of me. Haunted by the _what ifs_ and _if onlys_ that have no doubt been his mind's soundtrack since last night, a horrid tune repeated in a perpetual loop that I can acutely relate to—if in a completely opposite way. Because while I'm struggling with the imagined horrors that could have been, he's besieged by the vision of what was.

He looks so tired. Shattered. So thoroughly beaten that he can barely hold his own head up. Patches of red scrapes tarnish the tops of his cheeks in irregular patterns, making him appear too ashen and old for his age. And it hits me that this one terrible night has forced a decade into his features, dark circles tinting the raw skin around his eyes—lines having both formed and deepened against the impediment of time.

I bend at the knees and sit back on my heels, suddenly lightheaded. The hand holding the towel to my chin drops away, and rest on the top of my knee—the bleeding reasonably stemmed. The sight of the blood on the cloth makes my stomach lurch a threat. When I recognize that Ryan's detached gaze has also drifted toward the stained linen, I quickly move it to the floor behind my foot. Out of sight, out of mind.

His hands drop away from his face and fall heavily into his lap. Outlines are pressed into his forehead, detailed maps of where his fingers used to be. And I wonder just how long he has been in that exact position, how long he'd been alone and isolated in that indefinable land somewhere between dreaming and lucidity. When his fingers wrap around his left wrist rubbing back and forth—blood embedded beneath his nails—I reach out and grab his forearm, saving the cut from further infection. He doesn't struggle, but I'd be hard pressed to find any fight left in him right now. And when pertaining to Ryan, the significance of that realization doesn't sit lightly.

"It's too late," he mutters.

"Yeah…it's too late," I concede, because there's no reason not to at this point. It's too late for everything, including lies.

His watery, unfocussed eyes search out my face, and when we finally lock gazes, he turns away, exhaling sharply as if he has been dropped back down to reality—the weight of his burdens forcing the breath from his lungs.

I release his wrist and put my hand on his knee, attempting to keep him with me while he's here.

"Will you come with me, Ryan? Back to the hospital?"

He reaches up with a shaky hand and rubs his neck gingerly, wincing as he moves his head from side to side, like he has just noticed the pain for the first time.

I wonder whether he remembers being in the hospital, whether he remembers the doctors, and the reassuring half-smiles he gave Kirsten as they stitched up his wrist. I wonder whether he recalls anything about last night. Or whether he has completely skipped that chapter in his life—repressed those hours into the recesses of his mind—and tried to move on, only to find the illusion disintegrating, coming to a standstill here at the airport, assaulted by reality and the passage of time.

Eventually he nods, a resignation that appears to put him on the verge of a breakdown—eyes drowning in unshed tears, Adam's apple bobbing unsteadily. I act quickly, grabbing the towel by my foot and stuffing it into my back pocket, standing back and allowing Ryan the space to get up from his chair.

It takes a few minutes, some quiet encouragement, and a guiding hand on his back to coax him to his feet. But it only takes one wave of an arm to encourage Seth to come over and help. We each take a side, ready to act if Ryan should falter, but otherwise not touching—unobtrusive. Letting him make his own way.

A sharp "Ahem!" stops our journey in its tracks. I look back over my shoulder. Maurice is standing in the middle of the hallway, one foot crossed behind the other, hands held behind his back, staring up to the right casually. If he were whistling the picture would be complete.

"Keep going; I'll catch up."

Seth nods and places a hand on an unsteady Ryan's shoulder. I watch as Seth leads Ryan in a somewhat straight line until they merge with the crowd, albeit at a much slower pace than all the other busy travelers around them. .

"I'm sorry," I say when I get to Maurice. I never thought he'd be so easy to forget.

A quick search through the contents of my wallet reveals no cash. And I don't have time for an ATM. I want to keep Ryan moving, get him in the car, and take him back to the hospital. The only pit stop I might be convinced to make on the way is to pick up a pair of handcuffs.

"Um…will you take a check?"

* * *

Thanks to everyone for reading and whether you're liking or disliking, I'd love to hear from you one way or the other! 


	8. Chapter 7

**Thanks to Sister Rose for all her invaluable guidance. All mistakes are mine (and I mean ALL of them).**

**As always, dedicated to beachtree.**

**Sorry for the delay updating. This chapter kicked my ass. Hopefully the next one will come a little easier.**

* * *

As I jog back through the terminal toward the parking lot, I place a belated call to Kirsten, explaining to her in concise sentences exactly what's going on. As expected, she yells at me for not contacting her sooner, but her anger quickly dwindles into words of thankful relief. I leave out the part about Ryan's alarming lack of awareness, and she tactfully avoids questions that would lead into any detailed explanations. I tell her I'll call her when we get to the hospital. She says not to bother, assuring me she'll already be there, waiting anxiously by the doors. 

It doesn't take long to catch up with Seth and Ryan. In fact, they seem to be moving slower than when I left them—an undertaking I wasn't sure was possible.

It seems the longer Ryan stays within the realms of reality, the more he physically feels. The bruised ribs are forcing his breaths to come in short gulps. The sprained neck makes him appear stiff—almost stick-like—his steps smaller and more careful, as if every time his feet hit the pavement, shocks run up through his soles and circulating through his entire body. Eventually, he closes his eyes, trusting only me and Seth for guidance, his own vision compromised by his pounding head.

Once he's in the car, he sits rigid and still, his elbow resting on the window ledge, fingers draped over his eyes as protection from the sun. His bloodied arm lies limply beside him, as if he has given up on it and is only still carrying it around because of irreversible attachment.

Seth asks in a whisper if I have any Motrin in the car, but Ryan shakes his head with a groan, causing Seth to expel a strained laugh. "I guess once you've had the good stuff, nothing else compares."

And this is true in more ways than one because while not an hour ago I was praising the Beamer for its remarkable speed and superb handling, I'm now eternally grateful for its five-star safety rating and the peace of mind it affords me in this otherwise chaotic day.

Even still, I take every corner like I'm transporting boxes of unwrapped glass and a sharp turn or sudden stop or acceleration could cause the contents to shatter into a million pieces, beyond human repair. This is absurd, of course, but I'm in no state of mind to second-guess my instincts.

Seth repetitively looks back over his shoulder, as if there has been a sudden outburst or someone keeps calling his name. But after a quick, reassuring glance, he turns around again; the only other movement he makes is the sporadic jerking of the seatbelt as if it's choking or suffocating him.

Only when we come to complete stops do I dare cast a few cautious glances at Ryan in the rearview—otherwise, my full attention is committed solely to the road. But he's motionless and nearly unnoticeable. A ghost of what I expect him to be.

For the most part, it's a quiet ride. Actually, it's deathly silent. For the first time in longer than I can remember, Seth doesn't even attempt to turn on the music and we have to listen to the occasional squeak of leather, and the rolling of water bottles in the trunk as they make their way from front to back and side to side with the inertia. It's isn't until we're within 10 minutes of the hospital until actual words are spoken.

It's two words, actually. One unfinished sentence.

"Oh, God…."

And this spurs a verbal barrage.

"What's wrong?" I ask sharply. My voice seems to echo in the small space, ringing sharply in my ears. Throwing aside my cautious driving mission by taking my eyes away from the road, I look back over my shoulder.

"Dad, pull over," Seth demands, already backward in his seat and on his knees so he can see clearly into the back of the car.

"Move over!" I yell at man in the car beside me who insists on going whatever speed I'm driving at so that I can't get onto the shoulder. Finally I slam on the brakes, an action that causes Seth to fall backwards into the dashboard, and the water bottles to slam into the wall of the trunk with the deafening sound of rumbling thunder, but at least it allows me to get off the road.

Just when Seth manages to recover by grabbing onto the headrest and pulling himself forward, I force the car into park before we've come to a complete stop, forcing him off balance again.

"Dad! What the hell?" he shouts, his face screwed up in mock agony as he dramatically rubs his elbow.

"Sorry," I say absently, but my focus is centered on Ryan, who's already stumbling out of back seat.

I try to open my door twice, but it won't budge, and just as I'm about draw back my fist and attempt to punch a hole through the window—and _attempt_ is the key word here—, Seth turns around, stopping his door just before it closes shut behind him. He pokes his head back into the car. "It's locked," he says very matter-of-factly, a trace of disgust lingering on the words.

Sure enough, I must have accidentally pressed down the locking mechanism with my elbow while in transit. I manually pull the lock up, swing the door open, and try to jump out of the car, only to realize that my seatbelt's still latched. In my peripheral vision, I see Seth roll his eyes and shake his head as he walks toward Ryan.

I'm quick to write off my sudden incompetence as a direct result of exhaustion and blood loss, like any respectable Cohen man would do—something I must have picked up from my father, who blamed air pollutants and decreasing ozone for his bloodshot eyes, rather than the 40 of whisky he'd consumed the night before.

I jog around the back of the car, the short journey leaving me ridiculously breathless, and even though Seth has beaten me to the scene, there's little that either of us can do. Ryan is knee-deep in overgrown grass, hands resting on his knees, supporting his upper body as he dry heaves into the ditch.

I take two determined steps forward, and then retreat with the intensity of a hand pulled away from a hot stove. I'm afraid to touch him—to do anything that might qualify as comforting or parental—for fear of only physically hurting him more.

The sound he makes as he gasps painfully between the relentless lurching causes my mouth run dry, a lump forming in my throat. After a few seconds of hovering, static in a void of uncertainty with no purpose or function, I take the final step back and imitate Seth by leaning against the side of the car. Crossing my arms over my chest, I bow my head and close my eyes—trying to focus only on the pulsing in my chin because concentrating on my own pain instead of Ryan's is somehow less disturbing.

When the painful gasps finally recede into shaky breaths, I nudge Seth with my elbow.

"Go get a bottle of water from the trunk."

He doesn't hesitate, and right now, I would jump at the first opportunity for distraction as well. Right now, I would forfeit any and all benefits to be lower on the totem pole of responsibility. I don't want to be in charge, make the decisions, call the shots. I don't want the searing doubt and choking insecurity that come along with the job.

Ryan coughs and staggers back a few steps. I leap forward to grab his elbow before he trips over his feet and falls backward. All we need is for him to crack his head open on the car.

"Are you okay?" I shake my head before the words have even taken form. It's habitual—natural—to ask such a question even though I already know the answer all too well. And now's not the time for superfluous and redundant comments.

When he doesn't respond, I feel a little less ridiculous and all the more worried. His right arm is wrapped tightly around his chest, the other limp and unsteady in my grasp.

Seth appears at Ryan's other side with the bottle of water. He holds it out, then pulls it back quickly, unscrewing the lid before offering it again—with more confidence the second time. Ryan pulls his arm from my grasp—which I cautiously replace on his shoulder—and accepts the water.

He doesn't drink much, and when he holds the bottle back out in front of him—to no one in particular—Seth looks at me for what I assume is approval before tentatively taking it back.

I squeeze my fingers around Ryan's shoulder with the hope that he'll shift his attention to me, and then lean down so I don't have top speak too loudly over the hum of traffic. "Do you think you can handle the rest of the trip?" I pause and lick my lips, but don't wait too long for the response I don't really expect to come. "You can sit in the front if you'd like. Do you think it will help? I've got some sunglasses you can wear to help with the sun."

He nods, but when he turns back toward the car, he aims for the backseat. Seth reaches forward to grab Ryan's arm to redirect him, but Ryan stops suddenly, his eyes dropping to Seth fingers resting on his forearm, as if he's just now capable of feeling physical contact, his paralysis disintegrating, barriers breaking down. Seth lingers, his body frozen with uncertainty, and then withdraws his fingers slowly. Ryan watches as Seth's arm falls to his side, working his gaze slowly upward until he and Seth are eye to eye. They lock gazes for a few seconds, and then Seth swallows visibly, stepping back to allow Ryan access to the backseat.

And there's something I'm not getting. An essential piece of the puzzle missing. Maybe Ryan doesn't understand that we're here. Maybe he's slowly becoming aware of our presence through a series of sensations: feeling our touch, hearing our voices, seeing our faces. But it's scary to think that he hasn't been with us the whole time—that maybe he won't remember these moments when he fully emerges from the hypnotic state he's slowly filtering out of.

I cast an expectant look at Seth with some hope that maybe, with his constant verbal summaries, he could translate the situation for me—diffuse the uncertainty and tension with a sharp remark or sly comment—but he's draped across the outside of the door, chin resting on top of the frame. He waits with uncharacteristic patience while Ryan maneuvers himself into the back of the car at a painstakingly slow pace. It takes too long. Everything is taking too long this day—finding Ryan, the drive back from the airport—but all I can do is watch with helpless engrossment.

Cars whip by at a frenzied speed, much faster than seems possible right now, as if we're isolated and frozen in a state of slow motion, trying to claw our way to the surface but ultimately held back by a strong undertow. Like one of those dreams where no matter how hard you try, you never can quite get to where you want to go. And it's scary, because never before have I felt that sort of frustrating limitation in this level of consciousness.

I wonder if the boys feel it too, or if they're purposefully tolerating the moderation of slow motion, aware that there are other options out there but opting to forgo them.

I wonder if Ryan's capable of feeling anything other than the directly physical.

* * *

Kirsten's pacing back and forth along the edge of the sidewalk in front of the urgent care entrance—arms crossed firmly, steps determined and measured, as if she's actually heading somewhere instead of turning around every five steps and going back from where she came. 

When she sees the car approaching, she pushes her hair behind her ears and drops her arms to her sides, stepping to the very edge of the roadway until her toes are tipping down, maintaining a precarious balance on the narrow curb.

As soon as the car comes to a stop in front of her, she sticks her head inside my open window. For a second, I think she's going to kiss me, and despite the horribly inappropriate timing for a thought of this nature, the fleeting idea is welcomed. But instead she pushes her sunglasses up on top of her head—taking with them the wisps of loose hair—and peers around me into the backseat, her freshly made-up face strained with raw concern.

"He just fell asleep," Seth says to her, his eyes heavy with uncertainty, as if he's suddenly regretting not raising his hand—speaking before called upon. Even my son, who has never fully grasped or respected the concept of boundaries, knows when not to mess with his mother.

"What took you so long?" she accuses, albeit quietly.

"Dad was practicing his geriatric driving," Seth offers.

"We had a delay," I correct immediately.

She nods knowingly, even though she couldn't possibly know, but she doesn't ask any further questions. When she pulls back, her gaze flits from my face to Seth's, only for a split second, and then sharply back to me again, head turning sideways, brow scrunched into a puzzled "V" between her eyebrows. "What happened to your face, Sandy?"

Before I can think of an appropriate response, she grabs my chin and pulls it toward her for a better look—and now that the car is at a standstill again, I wonder if she's acting so harshly because, in my exhaustion, I'm moving at a much slower pace than the rest of the world, a thought cut short by the instant cramp that rips through the muscles in my neck. "I was tripped up in the airport," I answer her as best I can without the use of my lower jaw, her hand holding it steady and immobile for the examination.

She presses her lips into a thin line and winces sympathetically. From the awkward angle of my head, I'm able to meet her eyes and, without words, do my best to assure her that my minor ailment is at the bottom of our list of concerns at the moment. She reluctantly and releases her hold and I move my jaw around in circles to free up the seized muscles.

"Why don't you go get a wheelchair," I tell Seth while kneading the back of my stiff neck. But Kirsten shakes her head, and motions behind her, stepping back to reveal a petite nurse in green scrubs standing behind a wheelchair, her long brown hair tied back in a tight ponytail, making her look of all 12 years old.

"They're expecting him," the nurse says to me, almost as if she's answering a question I haven't asked, and again I feel like I'm behind, lingering just off the pace of what would be considered "normal."

I nod at her and try to force a smile to show my gratitude, but she took the nod as permission and doesn't hang around long enough for the smile—already working her way around to the rear passenger-side door with a focused professionalism that I thought only existed on shows like E.R.

By the time I get out of the car, another nurse, heavier and in pink scrubs, has arrived on the scene, the two of them, in their pink and green scrubs, mold together in the tight space just outside the car door, and to me it looks like a huge, moving watermelon is retrieving Ryan from the car.

"Don't they look like a ginormous watermelon when they're together like that?" Seth asks me, quietly so Kirsten can't overhear. And even if there was no such thing as DNA, I wouldn't doubt for a second that this is _my_ son.

Given my position as a parent figure, I'm required to give him a scolding glare, but there's no conviction behind it and I see his lips twitch before he looks down at his feet in pretend shame.

It's a good amount of time before the watermelon splits and I'm able to see Ryan.

He's sitting in the chair, and, even though his closed eyes belie it, he's wide awake. I know him well enough to recognize the signs of when he is and isn't sleeping, and right now, with his hands clutched tightly in his lap, jaw set out to one side like he does when he's concentrating or anticipating, he's most definitely awake, but I won't make any assumptions about his awareness.

Kirsten doesn't seem so sure. She's looking down at him with a bent frown, the right side of her bottom lip clenched tightly between her teeth.

"We've got a room ready for him," the pink one says, taking over from the green one and assuming the driving position behind the wheelchair. "Dr. Morrison's waiting inside."

I nod and look to Kirsten, but she doesn't respond, and I notice that the information was only directed at me. Then I realize that this all must be Kirsten's doing—informing the hospital, making sure a nurse was waiting with a wheelchair, alerting Dr. Morrison of our impending arrival so he could have an examination room ready.

"Dad?"

Seth is squinting, one foot quite a ways in front of the other as if he has stopped mid step to tell me something.

"You coming?" he asks impatiently, craning his neck to look back at me while moving forward toward the entrance, where I see the nurses have already escorted Ryan inside the large glass doors.

"Of course," I mutter, and again curse the imposition of time and the hold it seems to have on my existence.

* * *

It takes all of Maurice's remaining reserves to make the drive home. His eyelids droop heavily and the waves of heat that float into the car every time he slows below 20 miles per hour make it all the harder to hold his head upright. 

He blares the music as loud as the old speakers in his cab will allow, but the static in the reception is more annoying than stimulating. He's already feeling the pressing urge in his bladder, but he's determined to make it back to his apartment before stopping again. All things, considered, he should be very miserable, but all he has to do is think of the fat check sitting in the pocket of his pants and the world seems like a better place.

In the end, it has been worth it: the fear, the long drive, the stained pants and the overwhelming exhaustion. It has paid off because now he can afford to take that vacation he hasn't even dared dream about. Thanks to the generous man with the bloody chin and the runaway boy with the bloody arm, Maurice can put aside all of his discomforts and enjoy one of the best days of his life.

It isn't until he's walking up the stairs to his apartment when he feels it. Every time he lifts his right leg up a step, something pokes into his thigh. He stops on the landing and digs into his pocket, baffled at not being able to remember what he'd put in there.

When he pulls out the phone, he lets out a long, exasperated moan.

This is not what he needs. He wants a clean break. After a nap, he had every intention of walking to the bank on the corner, depositing the check, and never thinking about how he'd acquired the money again. But this phone, this connection, is holding him back.

Maybe he could call them. Maybe he could tell the man to come pick up the boy's phone. The number's programmed in; he'd dialed it in the airport.

But when Maurice flips it open, none of the lights flash on. He presses the power button several times, harder and harder until it sticks and won't pop back up.

It's dead.

"Merde!" he shouts, stomping his foot against the rickety aluminum stairs. They rock and creak beneath him in protest, and Maurice grips the wall nervously until everything is steady again..

He doesn't want to just throw it out. He hasn't cashed and cleared his check yet, and he doesn't want to give the man any reason to cancel the transaction before it goes through.

"There has to be a way…" Maurice mutters to himself in French.

And that's when it hits him. He digs deep into his other pocket, pulling out the folded piece of paper that he would protect with his life.

Sure enough, in the top left corner, there is an address for a Mr. Sandy Cohen.

* * *

We're not 10 feet inside the hospital before we're bombarded by a hospital administrator. "I need a family member to fill out these forms." 

"Sandy, do you mind?" Kirsten asks hopefully, her hand resting lightly on Ryan's shoulder as he's wheeled forward, like she's never going to allow him out of her reach again.

But she's not asking. No. That's her way of delegating: pretending like I have choices where no options exist. And before I can answer with a nod, she has disappeared around the corner, sandwiched between her boys.

"I just need you to fill out here, here, here," the lady says, dotting the page with the tip of her pen, then flips it over and points to a small "x" at the bottom of the next sheet, "and sign here, please."

I accept the clipboard and walk over to the counter at the nurse's station where the bright overhead lights make the small print on the forms more legible.

But the lady failed to mention, in her casual "here, here and here" references, that I would need a good half a day to properly fill out the designated sections.

"He was here just a few hours ago. Don't you guys have all this on file?" I ask the woman typing on the computer behind the counter. She dips her head and looks at me from over her horn-rimmed glasses, her voice monotonous and lacking inflection. "Every admission requires a new set of sheets," she says, then pushes her glasses back into place with her middle finger and resumes pounding the keyboard.

And as much as I want to yell that it's their damned fault that Ryan even left in the first place, I realize that there's no point. I'm brain's too sluggish to verbalize a coherent argument. I just want to get in that room with my wife and sons, and if that means writing half answers and scribbling nonsense in a few of the "required fields," I really don't have a problem with that.

Someone nudges my arm, and a small Styrofoam cup appears between my face and the clipboard.

"Here. Mom's sending me on errands already."

I turn my head and Seth raises his eyebrows, thrusting the cup forward a few more inches. I drop my pen and take it from him. "Thanks."

The coffee isn't steaming and—as I discover after my first sip—isn't regular coffee either. I place my hand over my mouth to avoid my body's impulse to spit out the unexpectedly potent fluid.

"Triple espresso. I had to pull some strings with the guy who runs the cart over there," Seth says, pointing toward a wall, and I can only assume he's talking about what's behind it, "but he finally caved."

"You could have warned me," I wheeze after managing to swallow the huge initial gulp of espresso. But Seth just smiles to himself; and yes, I know he had hoped this is how it would play out.

I finish the remains in five slightly smaller gulps, and I can tell that by Seth's wide eyes that he's a bit surprised. "Get me another," I demand, shoving the empty cup back into his hands, then picking up my pen to finish the 1000-word essay.

By the time Seth returns, I'm just capping off my signature and shoving the clipboard toward the indifferent lady with the thick glasses. She grunts her thanks without missing a beat in her typing.

"You know where we're going?" I ask Seth, accepting the second cup, this one hotter than the last, I notice. He nods. "Room 109. But they're waiting for the room across the hall to be prepared now because Mom didn't want Ryan sharing a room with a screaming, four-year-old."

I can imagine the guilty faces on the poor nurses as they face the wrath of Kirsten. Too bad I missed it.

I finish the second espresso even quicker than the first—no longer shocked by the strong taste—then crumple the cup in my hand and toss it into a large garbage can as we walk by. Already the caffeine is making my head buzz, and I mentally prepare myself for the impending heart palpitations. It's all worth it if the drug can afford me the ability to focus, if just for another hour or so.

Seth peeks into 109, and shakes his head, gesturing across the hall to 110. I enter the private room first. It is small and tight, but efficiently set up with a bed in the middle, a small sink and counter in the corner, and various machines and dispensers decorating the stark white walls.

Kirsten is standing off to the side, and with the way the nurses are working briskly under her watch, one holding up Ryan's arms while the other pulls his shirt over his head, I deem it best to stay out of the way. Close, but out of the way.

I can't help but stare at the marks on his midsection, dark blues and purples in the exact outline of a seatbelt, looking more like paint than bruises.

I'm thankful when the pink one slips a gown over his upper body. Ryan's assisted to his feet and over to the bed, hands hovering close by, ready to intervene should he require help. He sits perched on the edge while the nurses wordlessly go about pulling off his shoes and tying the gown behind his back, whipping out things like penlights and thermometers and stethoscopes in rapid furry; and thanks to the caffeine, I'm able to follow every movement.

During a lull when the pink nurse steps back to chart her findings, Kirsten takes the opportunity to lean forward and gingerly brush Ryan's hair back off his forehead, but his eyes are set on the green nurse—who's tugging at his socks—with what appears to be a small degree of amusement. She looks up and smiles shyly as she balls the socks together and tosses them into the clear plastic bag along with his shirt.

"If you could lie back, Dr. Morrison will be with you shortly, okay?" she says sweetly. Her professionalism of earlier is replaced by an awkward girlishness, and if I'm interpreting this correctly, she's quite smitten with Ryan.

Over my shoulder, I can see some brown curls bouncing back and forth, and I know Seth is shaking his head in disbelief at the realization that Ryan can continue to lure them in when he's borderline lucid and, for the most part, physically incapacitated.

The nurses exit together, and as soon as the door shuts behind them, I can hear the lighthearted and casual workplace chattering begin.

Seth stays by the door, his back pressed against the wall, while Kirsten and I take up residence on either side of the narrow bed.

Ryan leans back onto his left arm and lifts his foot like he's going to lay back, but his mouth contorts into a grimace and he halts the action before it can take place. He leans forward again and pulls his limp left arm into his lap, staring down at his wrist for a few seconds, then delicately brushing over the bloodied area with his right index finger, as if noticing and assessing the wound for the first time. He probes around the entire cut, and just as I'm about to suggest he not touch it, he stops, turning his right hand palm up, displaying his blood-stained fingertips.

Kirsten takes a step forward and rests a hand on Ryan's shoulder. He jumps at her touch. Not high, but he does react. And for some reason, I'm tremendously relieved to witness this. Kirsten, however, is startled and removes her hand quickly, but Ryan shows no further reaction.

"Why don't you lie down, sweetie," she says with a warm smile that never reaches its mark because Ryan's eyes are closed again, his body already obediently working on maneuvering into a prone position.

With Ryan settled, and Kirsten and I standing like a statues on either side of the bed, Seth stops the rapid tapping of his shoe, which leaves the buzzing of the overhead lights as the lone sound in the room. In the newfound silence, I can make hear the shake in Ryan's breathing, the way he holds in the occasional breath for a few seconds longer than all the rest before exhaling very slowly. I quietly try to match my own breathing to his pattern, because if I can't take it away, I at least want to feel it with him.

But this only lasts for a few rounds, and all four of us jump nervously when the door swings open with a whoosh. Dr. Morrison comes flying into the room, his white coat flailing out behind him like a cape. I can't help but wonder if he practiced that entrance until he got it just right.

Kirsten must have filled him in on the situation earlier because he doesn't bother with niceties. He greets Ryan with short smile and a firm nod and then gets right down to business. The lights, thermometers and stethoscopes reappear, and then there are the questions. Simple, everyday questions that are supposed to assure us that Ryan's brain is still firing on all cylinders. Except last time we went through this, he tested well, but couldn't seem to apply that same logic. And look where it got us.

So when Dr. Morrison starts spouting off the same questions that Ryan had answered the night before, I roll my eyes and let out a dramatic sigh. I am, however, surprised when he stops mid sentence to look at me, but I can't tell from his eyes whether he's sending a warning or is curious about my objection.

"Mr. Cohen? Is there something you want to say?"

I know he's just humoring me, but I have a sudden regression to my childhood, remembering exactly how it feels to be scolded for speaking out when not being spoken to. But screw it; I'm an adult—an exhausted, cranky, at-the-end-of-my-rope adult—and I have something to say, and he's going to have to listen. Simple as that.

I motion toward the door with my head, keeping my hands pushed deep down into the pockets of my pants. His eyebrows leap up, but he smiles at Ryan while replacing the pen in his jacket pocket. "I'll be back in a second. Try to stay awake," he says with a soft pat on the knee.

When Morrison joins me in the hallway, he doesn't seem at all like I'm putting him out. He has adopted that compassionate voice again—the same one he used when he assured me Ryan would simply turn up. "What is it, Mr. Cohen? Is everything all right?"

_Are you serious! No! Things are not all right! You don't have to have a PhD to see that, you moron! _

I blame this internal outburst on the large quantity of caffeine that's rapidly infusing into my bloodstream, and force myself to take a deep breath before speaking. "It's just that Ryan answered all those questions last night. He answered them correctly and convincingly, and yet he still took off. If you're going to properly judge his mental state, you're going to need to challenge him more."

Dr. Morrison's façade of compassion slips momentarily, and I recognize the look in his eyes. I used to deal with disgruntled teenagers all the time, and the glare the doc is giving me right now might as well be titled "What do you know, huh?" But as far as I'm concerned, he lost a hell of a lot of power when he let Ryan walk out of this hospital, so I'm not backing away from this argument.

"Okay," he concedes with a sigh, not too far off from a laugh, like I'm a lunatic for even suggesting the idea but he's putting up with me because it takes less effort to give me my way than to fight me on it. "I'll tell you what, since you know Ryan better than me, why don't you ask him some questions and if I feel I need to add something, I will."

I nod, satisfied, and follow the doc back into the room.

Ryan's eyes are closed but Kirsten's talking to him in a quiet but firm voice, one that demands answers and reciprocation, and I know Ryan better than to assume he would abandon Kirsten in the middle of a conversation, no matter how exhausted and beaten he is.

"Ryan, Mr. Cohen here is going to ask you some questions for me, and I want you to answer them to the best of your ability, okay?"

He moves his head to the side and opens his weary eyes with a soft moan, following it up with a subtle nod.

"Great." Doctor Morrison waves one arm toward his patient and takes a step back, as if encouraging me to take the stage. I ignore his dramatic gesture and all that it implies, sitting on the edge of Ryan's bed.

Another deep breath precedes the first question. "Ryan, do you remember what happened last night?"

The sudden change from "what's your phone number?" to "do you remember the worst night of your life?" certainly startles him, his entire body stiffening. He blinks several times before looking away.

"Ryan?" I press.

He swallows thickly, clears his throat. "Yes."

Morrison lets out an impatient sigh, and I swear to God I'll slap him across the face if he tries to forbid me from asking yes or no questions.

"What happened, Ryan?"

Kirsten places her pinky fingernail into her mouth and bites down. But she doesn't try to stop me.

As much as I hate to make him go through this, we have to know. He has to say the words. He has to come back to us, no matter how painful it might be to hear it out loud…to think about it at all.

"There was an accident," he says softly, like he has just read the news in the morning paper. His eyes are shining with unshed tears, a sudden pain making him recoil into himself.

"What happened, Ryan?" I repeat, encouraging him to build on the statement.

He lifts his good hand up and rubs deep circles into his eyes, and I can only imagine what horrendous images are flashing through his mind as he searches for the words to sum it all up.

"I…I don't know."

This peaks Morrison's interest, and suddenly the chart he is holding is lowered to his side, his full attention on Ryan.

I wait for the better part of a minute before I ask my next question. "What do you know? What do you remember?"

Ryan shifts and exhales shakily, eyelids staying shut for seconds after each blink, and when they open again, it takes a moment before his eyes can regain focus. The third time his pupils adjust—shrinking to accommodate the bright fluorescent lights that won't allow even the tiniest detail to remain concealed—he searches my face and locks in on my eyes. "Sandy," he says in a harsh whisper, his expression hopeful, like a lost child who has finally located a familiar face.

"I'm here," I assure him, reaching out blindly for his hand, gripping it in my own—afraid that if I break away even slightly, I'll lose him again. It's the first time he has noticed me—really _looked_ at me.

"Tell me, Ryan. What do you remember?" I coax softly, unblinking and unmoving. It feels like we're connected by the fragile thread of a spider web, and a soft breath or minute movement could snap the connection.

But Ryan pulls away, looking over my right shoulder, then my left—opening and closing his mouth in several false starts before whispering, "Falling."

Suddenly I'm assaulted by the smell of burning plastic and spilt fuel, the same potent scents that hit me like a brick when I first found Ryan last night—staring blankly at a spot on the wall in the isolated trauma room. And even though I never made it to the scene of the accident, I can picture the ashes floating through the air in thick clumps, the demolished vehicle melting into itself. It all combines to make my lungs ache and my heart beat faster. It takes just one word—loaded with the weight of tragedy—and I am there. Falling.

Kirsten sniffs and pulls her chin into her chest, eyes covered by loose strands of blonde hair. Seth's shoe squeaks as he grinds his toe against the clean floor. Dr. Morrison stays perfectly still at the foot of the bed, chart abandoned and all but forgotten. And Ryan closes his eyes tightly for a second, then opens them again, as if working hard to catch a thought and then instantly trying to release it—forget it.

He shakes his head slowly from side to side, the range limited by his stiff neck. Devastation radiates from his slackened features—bright lights, combined with yellowed bruises and ashen skin, make him appear more dead than alive, a sickening visual that causes my throat to constrict in on itself rapidly.

"She didn't make it," he says in a hushed voice for the third time since the accident. And while the first two were questions, both very different in nature, this one is an announcement. This time he really believes it. And it's tearing him apart inside.

Kirsten reaches out and grabs his hand in hers, kissing it and pressing it against her tear-stained face.

"I know," I tell him.

* * *

TBC. 

Thanks so much for reading. Hopefully it wasn't as horrible to read as it was to write.


	9. Chapter 8

A/N: If anyone was waiting for an update, I apologize for taking so long.

* * *

There's something very wrong about it. The way the smoke crawls down my throat and wedges its way into every nook and cranny of my lungs. The way it works into crevices like long fingers massaging the tension out of my chest. The way it seems to increase in density when I hold it in, as if it's multiplying—using my clean, pinkish flesh as a breeding ground.

It's very wrong. It's very wrong because it feels so good.

I ignore the scowling glares, the doctors and nurses waving their hands dramatically in front of their noses as they walk through the cloud of smoke and back into the hospital. Every time the glass doors separate, cold air wafts out, making me aware of the sweat trickling down the back of my neck. But it doesn't matter, because something that feels this right can't be that wrong.

Kirsten would so not approve.

But I don't care that my actions—smoking out front of a hospital—are frowned upon by…well…everyone, because I need it. Right now, I _need_ it, and that's just going to have to be enough.

"Dad!"

And just like that, the cigarette drops to the pavement and finds itself mashed beneath the sole of my shoe. So much for not caring.

"Are you smoking?"

I shake my head "no," but I can't hold my breath forever.

Seth laughs when the smoke floats out from my nose and mouth.

Where's a gust of wind when I need one?

He leans against the wall beside me, rocking back onto the edge of his heels, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He turns his head and looks down at his shoes before speaking.

"I'm not Mom. You could have finished it."

"You didn't sound like you approved." I say defensively, my voice a little edgy. Kirsten used to say that smoking made me sound dangerous. She changed her mind when Seth came along and I was no longer just a danger to myself.

"I was surprised, that's all."

"I was surprised when you burnt down the Newport Group."

I don't know why I had to say that—really, could I have chosen a more inappropriate time to bring that up?—but Seth takes it all in stride. He simply shrugs, like he'd only read about the guy who'd been pardoned for committed arson while smoking illegal drugs. His elbow bumps mine as he rocks front heel to toe and back again.

He catches my eyes and then looks off into the distance. "So…Ryan's okay?" he asks, squinting in the sun.

Seth was there. He heard everything the doctor said, everything Ryan said, but I guess he still harbors that inherent need for parental reassurance.

"Not really," I say, and just like that, the rocking ceases, and guilt forces me to elaborate. "But he will be. Eventually."

"But physically…," Seth ventures hesitantly, his voice tinny and needy and suddenly sounding much younger than when he spoke last.

I shrug and lean my head back against the brick wall, letting out a strained sigh. "He could be better."

"But…," Seth trails off.

"Yeah, Seth," I say finally with an impatient, circular wave of my hand, "he'll be fine." I know it's harsh and a little uncalled for, but I'm tired and irritable and really itching for the rest of that cigarette.

There's a silence and then, "So?"

"So what?" I ask him.

"Are you going to finish what you started?"

I raise my eyebrows. Maybe I made a mistake earlier, drinking beer with my underage son in a Chino convenience store parking lot at 8 am, but I'm pretty sure it's not as bad as what I'm about to do.

I shake out one cigarette for myself, placing it between my licked lips, and hold out another, purposefully fixing my eyes straight ahead to avoid having to give an explanation—verbal or otherwise.

But it's taken without question, and then the lighter, and we sit silently together, both of us completely still in a serene moment of nothing. A moment I'll forget and deny as soon as it's over.

And if life were that simple, I'd still be living in Berkeley, practicing botany on the roof of my apartment.

* * *

"I can't believe that…I mean, after everything, Sandy!"

I keep my gaze fixed on the tiles passing beneath my feet, the colors alternate from beige to white for several feet—three even steps exactly—and then swirl into a complicated pattern resembling a flower before starting over again.

"I know it was…inappropriate."

"It was…yes!" Kirsten agrees loudly, her hands falling to her sides with a loud slap.

She lowers her voice and closes in on me, grabbing a hold of my elbow and giving it a sharp tug. For a second I almost lose track of the tiles and the steps and it makes me somewhat dizzy to be thrown out of my rhythm. She's almost underneath me, and I have to make an effort not to step on her toes. She whispers more into my shoulder than into my ear. "I know that this has been a tough day…for everyone…but this is not what he needs."

I know she's talking about Seth. Hell, _Seth_ knows she's talking about Seth, but it's one cigarette and, while it might have been the worst possible timing in the world for this generally harmless father-son bonding moment, it's hardly a blip on the past 24-hour's Events of Great Significance graph. And, really, it very well might be exactly what he needs. With all the drama, it's easy to forget just how affected Seth must be by what happened last night. Even without the worry and fear and the wild goose chase, we all have every right to be devastated. If it were a completely just world, cartons of cigarettes should be provided in situations such as these.

We stop in front of the elevator and she reaches into my pocket and removes the mostly-full pack of cigarettes. She peers into the package for a second, and then shakes her head disapprovingly, tossing it into her purse instead of the obvious garbage can less than an arm's length away.

When she glances up again, I catch her eye and we both have to look away quickly, our lips creasing under in the effort to suppress our smiles.

Later, when we're at home, hopefully with both our sons sleeping soundly in their own beds, we'll sit along the edge of the pool, our bare feet dipping into the cool water, and finish off the rest of the pack together. But right now, the game has to be played, even if Seth is completely ignoring us, as I'm sure he is.

We get off the elevator on the second floor and walk to the end of the hall where Ryan had been moved before I excused myself under false pretenses and made the mad dash to the nearest convenience store.

Inside, a nurse is sitting beside the bed, Ryan's left arm draped limply over a stainless steel table that she's leaning over as she closes the wound on his wrist with a neat row of blue stitches. Which is the reason Kirsten came to get me in the first place. The nurse said she'd have a look at my chin at the same time—saving me a trip to urgent care.

She finishes with a satisfied, "There!" pulling back to appraise the finished product like she has just successfully wrapped an oddly shaped Christmas gift. But her hard work receives no praise. Ryan's sound asleep, his head lolled to one side so that his chin is resting on his shoulder. Though I doubt he'd care even if he was awake.

The nurse applies a rectangular gauze cover over the wound and then gently returns Ryan's arm to his side.

"And you're next, I take it?" she asks cheerily, rising and stepping right up in front of me to examine her next challenge. The top of her head barely reaches the top of my chin, but she stands on the tips of her toes and places two fingers on the side of my jaw, appraising her next challenge by turning my head left and then right.

She falls back down onto her flat fleet. "I think we'd be best just to glue this shut, help minimize scarring."

She says "we" as if someone else in the room will be assisting her, and that really bothers me. It's reminds me of my first boss, a fat old man who used "we" carelessly and inaccurately. He'd say, "We'll just clean this place up and then we can go home." But he meant, "I'm going home, and you can too once you've cleaned this place up." Since then, reckless use of the word "we" has always bothered me. Especially in situations like this; I hope that no one else is going to be gluing my body parts together.

"And by 'we' I hope you just mean 'you.'"

Off to my right, Kirsten is rolling her eyes. Seth sighs from behind the magazine he's holding directly in front of his face. They've both heard me say this before.

The nurse smiles patiently. "Of course," she says. "Have a seat and I'll be right back." She gathers the instruments into the middle of the tray resting atop the table, and bounces out of the room.

It doesn't take long for the perky nurse to fix me up. I half expect her to shove me into some sort of kiln to set the glue, but apparently it sets itself.

When she has left the room, I run a finger over my chin. The wounded area is smooth and glossy while everything else is stubbly and rough. It feels like I haven't shaved in a week. Or taken a shower. Or slept, for that matter.

My body has been coaxed into a barely function state of existence—with the caffeine and the nicotine—but looking at Ryan, even with his mottled bruised face and the apparent stiffness in his bones and muscles, I can't help but crave to be in his place. Lost in the depths beyond the realm of consciousness, a dark, still, quiet place where no thoughts or dreams can survive. A place of pure rest—the mind completely dormant.

"Sandy?" My eyes snap open just as my elbow slips off the armrest. I somehow manage not to split my chin open again on the sharp wooden edges of the chair.

I curiously look up at Kirsten, who's standing right over top of me. "You were falling out of your chair," she informs me, placing her hands on either armrest then leaning forward to place a kiss on my forehead.

"Great…," Seth mutters in disgust.

But Kirsten's hair is tickling my neck and there's something more to this than just two parents trying to gross out their child—if that were even one part of it, which it isn't. It's a moment where I can feel the crevices of my wife's lips against the grain of my forehead. A moment where her warmth seeps deep into my skin, extinguishing the fiery ends of my nerves much the way the cigarette did earlier. It's a comfort. For the first time today, I feel like things are finally falling back into their place. Like we're all finally safe.

* * *

I had imagined returning home would feel different. Several times in the past 12 hours, in the moments where nothing was happening—like when I was driving, or the nurses kicked us out so they could clean Ryan up—I'd find myself daydreaming. I'd see myself returning home, that exact moment when I stepped through the front door—keys swinging around my index finger. I'd be dressed in the same clothes, but they'd be clean and winkle-free, the buttons done up properly, the collar of my shirt stiff and firm. The sun would be shining in through the wall of glass doors at the back of the house like it does every morning, the light bouncing off the crystal vases and bowls, refracting rainbows on the walls and ceiling. I'd imagine walking through the kitchen, taking in the fresh smell of orange from that cleaner Kirsten uses to scrub the sinks every morning. The familiar tune of a Playstation game that I couldn't name and have never played would be drumming in the background. Seth would groan and grunt and then toss the controller onto the rug in front of him with a defeated sigh.

It made no sense whatsoever considering what I knew, but that's what I saw.

It would be normal. I had never fantasized about something so normal.

But returning home is anything but normal.

I turn the door knob and swing the door open, then take a few steps back and allow Seth through first, followed by Ryan, who's followed so closely by Kirsten that they might as well be glued together. Her hands are resting on his shoulders, knuckles occasionally whitening as she uses pressure from her fingers to guide him left and right, forward and back. He appears to be trusting her implicitly.

I follow last, shutting the door behind me with a louder than usual thud. And it's nothing like I imagined. The house is dark and uninviting. The sun has long since disappeared and there's no moon in the sky to illuminate the room. A harsh grayish light floats out from the kitchen, a product of the single fluorescent rod under the cabinet by the sink that is set to come on automatically every night around 10.

I pocket my keys and run a hand over my chest; my clothes feel thin and grimy. A quick glance down confirms that a couple buttons have come undone and there's a cluster of red dots down the front of my shirt—stray blood from my chin. The house smells like stale coffee, and I already know there are going to be several half-drank mugs of coffee littering the counter, cream floating in small white clouds atop the cold liquid.

And it's quiet. So eerily quiet. There's no music, or chatter, or background noise of any sort. This is how I would define "dead silent."

Ryan has settled himself onto the couch in the living room, staring blankly through the glass doors, out into the darkness. I don't think I've ever seen him sit there. No one ever sits there. It's unnatural. But I realize that Kirsten must have set him there as a sort of rest stop while she sets up the guest room.

Seth stands facing the couch—on the other side of the long coffee table—his feet set wider than his shoulders, hands clasped in front of his stomach. He appears to be standing guard, his eyes set on Ryan who is either not bothered by the constant babysitting or is completely oblivious. Neither is much of a comfort to me, because his reaction is not at all "Ryan." He should be fidgeting with a watch or a wrist cuff or the hem of his shirt, avoiding eye contact, or at the very least he should tell Seth to sit down in a quiet but firm voice, throwing in a not-so-serious glare that would scare animals, small children, and most Newpsies.

But none of this happens. Ryan sits motionless in a heap, molding into the pillows as if lacking any sort of skeletal support, surely a result of the muscle relaxants administered at the hospital before our departure. His eyes are unfocussed and lidded, their blue seemingly brighter than usual against the dark tint of his bruised skin. Every breath sounds like a sigh, his chin lifting and then falling under the effort.

There's a quick pounding behind me that slows into soft padding as Kirsten takes the second half of the stairs with more caution than the first.

"Okay," is all she says. Seth nods and steps down from his post, assuming his position on Ryan's left side as Kirsten takes the right. Maybe they worked out this system while I was sleeping in the hospital because it's obvious I play no role in this plan. So I retreat to the base of the stairs and watch.

Except Ryan doesn't move. "You'll be more comfortable in bed," Kirsten says as she tries to coax him to his feet. Seth tugs lightly on Ryan's elbow, and when he gets no response he casts an expectant look at his mother. Obviously they hadn't worked out a Plan B.

Kirsten tries a few more times using lures such as clean sheets and pillow-top mattresses, but Ryan doesn't acknowledge her whatsoever. I have this sudden fear that he has regressed to the state of mind that somehow got him to the airport. I thought he'd come out of it. After he recalled the accident, he appeared lucid and coherent—if exhausted, devastated and pain ridden.

And all of a sudden, when Kirsten turns to me and shrugs, her eyes wide and pleading for help, I'm a part of Operation: Get Ryan to Bed.

Seth returns to his guard on the other side of the coffee table and Kirsten stands off nervously to the side, lips pressed together in a thin line.

I take a seat on the couch next to Ryan, and lean back into the pillows. I can't figure out why no one ever sits here because this is, by far, the most comfortable piece of furniture ever made. But then I could probably sleep on a bed of nails right now, so I'll make a note to reassess when I'm not quite so…half dead. I can appreciate Ryan's position on not moving.

A knuckle digs into the fleshy area between my neck and shoulder, followed by a harsh whisper. "Sandy!"

Right. I pry my eyes open and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.

"I know this couch seems…_really_ comfortable right now," I say, turning my head just slightly to the left so I can see Ryan's face, "but once you're in bed, you'll feel so much better."

I'm saying it, but I don't believe it, because, seriously, sitting on this couch is the closest I've come to finding heaven on earth.

Behind me, Kirsten sighs.

I'm just about to mutter some other unconvincing arguments about the merits of Egyptian cottons when Ryan's voice interrupts my thoughts.

"I don't want to sleep."

Okay, that? I cannot relate to. I want to sleep for…well…perhaps the rest of my life.

"You don't want to sleep?" I ask him, sincerely baffled.

I can't tell whether he shakes his head or just takes a deeper breath, either way his chin dips down toward his chest.

When Ryan starts to get up, I shake my head but accept the victory, whole segments of time and conversation and revelations and all that stuff seem to just be passing me by lately, so this reaction doesn't totally surprise me.

Well, I am a _bit_ surprised at the speed in which he gets up. With the way he was walking when he left the hospital, I kind of expected him to require assistance. But not only does he get up on his own, but he shrugs out from under Kirsten's touch when she places a hand on his shoulder, and he takes the longer route to avoid walking by Seth, who is sure to offer help as well. In fact, Ryan seems determined to do this all on his own. And while that should be a huge weight off my shoulders—he's moving practically normally—it's anything but. This is too much of a difference, too drastic a change to be considered recovery.

Kirsten follows closely behind, and when he grips onto the railing and pulls himself up the first step, she reaches both her hands out like she's going to place them on his back, but hovers inches away. "Ryan, you should really let us—"

But he stops abruptly and cuts her off by holding up his free hand. Under his t-shirt, I can see the muscles on his back tense up, the fingers wrapped so tightly around the railing I fear he's going to bend the wrought iron.

Kirsten nearly falls backwards trying to avoid touching him, and she must be thinking the same thing as me. He's morphed into a ticking time bomb, and one touch, one wrong movement, will set him off.

"Ryan…honey—"

"Don't," he mutters. We can't see his face, but I can picture his jaw set out to one side, eyes shut as he takes a calming breath.

And then he starts moving again, pulling more than pushing himself up the stairs.

He crosses the landing and disappears around the corner, the rhythmic sound of his shoes hitting the hardwood echoes down the narrow stairwell.

"Well?" Kirsten asks from my right.

"That was…unexpected," Seth says from my left.

I shove my hands into my pockets, and let my head droop in front of me. I don't know how many more Ryans I can handle. This day just won't die.

* * *

TBC. 


	10. Chapter 9

Shout-out to my poor beta, Sister Rose, and thank-you notes to helenc and muchtvs for their unput. It has been a while (three months), so if you're not quite sure how the last chapter finished, you might want to check that out before starting in on this one. Otherwise, confusion will probably ensue.

The final two chapters are written and ready to go (sort of), so this story should be finished off soon.

Thanks for reading.

**CHAPTER NINE**

The cupboard is empty; the counter is cluttered with every single mug we own. Some are empty. Some contain cold coffee. The ones wrapped beneath our fingers have billows of steam rolling off the tops.

We all flinch simultaneously when the coffee maker sighs, announcing a fresh pot is on the way.

I wish we had set up camp somewhere else. The kitchen is my kingdom. It's where I'm at my best. This? This is unnatural.

Three Cohens. Sitting in the kitchen. Drinking coffee. Stoic and stiff. It's just not right.

There's a crack directly above our heads. A loose floor board, maybe? Perhaps the house is settling. Either way, all eyes are on the ceiling. But there are no further sounds. Nothing else that would indicate life from above.

Kirsten breaks the silence with a cluck of her tongue. "We can't just sit here and wait…can we?"

Eyes dart from me to Seth, and she brushes imaginary stray hairs behind her ears, frowning hopefully. Unfortunately, neither of us has the answer to that question.

This is definitely a "living room" moment. Not a kitchen moment.

Seth shrugs, moves in for a refill.

Why have we resorted to acting like guests in our own home? Would Ryan really want that? I don't think so. Or at least I'd like to think not. Then again, I have no idea what Ryan wants, that much is clear.

"I don't know what else to do right now," I manage to mutter through a stifled yawn.

Kirsten pushes my coffee away from me. "Go lie down, Sandy. Get some sleep."

I shake my head, pulling the mug closer again, but my body screams, "YES!"

A warm hand rubs a circle on my back. "You can either sleep, or continue to sit here in a paralyzed state of worry."

"Maybe if we moved to the den…," I propose in the absence of any better idea, but Seth cuts me off.

Seth cell starts to vibrate. He digs into his pocket and darts from the room.

Kirsten continues to talk to me while staring off after him. "I'll come get you if we need you. But right now…" She turns to face me, frowning from hairline to the tip of her chin. "…there's nothing you can do."

I'm dismissed with a distracted kiss on the cheek, and take one final sip of the steaming coffee before moving from my stool. Kirsten follows me into the living room area. Before I walk down the hall to our bedroom, I glance back over my shoulder. She's standing at the bottom of the staircase, hands crossed over her midsection, staring up in the direction of both her boys. I should be able to sleep. After all, I'm leaving them in more capable hands.

* * *

Maurice wakes with a start. He's sitting bolt upright in bed, a thin layer of sweat lurking on his skin, underneath his faux-satin, polka dot pajamas. He has no idea what woke him so suddenly, but he knows exactly why he's awake. 

Even in the dark of his heavily curtained bedroom, he can see the glint of the tiny silver cell phone. Beside it, his alarm clock's large red numbers are blinking back an impossible time: 3:00. And then it hits him. It's late. Dark outside. The power had obviously gone out, and his alarm hadn't gone off. He'd slept for an entire—he holds his left wrist up to his face, squinting to read the time—five hours longer than he intended.

It's 10 o'clock. The bank is closed. Teenagers are just getting started on another night of rebellious drinking—one that would surely earn Maurice enough money in taxi fares to make that trip he'd planned an all-inclusive one.

His mouth starts watering at the mere thought of sipping a mai tai on a white sand beach. No one requiring his services; no Newport teenagers around to mock his French take on the English language.

But before his poor cab becomes a basin for the alcohol-sodden contents of teens' stomachs, he has business to take care of.

He leaps from his bed and replaces the pajamas with his uniform from the night before. The clothes smell stale, but he doesn't have time to dig up a pair of pants that aren't stiff with dried latté.

With one final check to ensure he has pocketed the fat check and the dead cell phone, he grabs his car keys and takes off into the crisp night air.

His first appointment for the night: Mr. Sandy Cohen.

* * *

Twenty-seven minutes. That's how long it takes for Kirsten to come find me. I'm surprised how easy it is to get out of bed. Despite my exhaustion, I can't seem to do anything but stare at the ceiling. It's frustrating and infuriating, but I can't coerce my brain to snap out of the fishtail spin. I can, however, dig up some Valium. But I'll think about that later. 

Kirsten's hovering in the doorway, hands holding onto either side of the doorframe. She smiles at me, but it doesn't last. "Something's not right," she says, her tone verging on apologetic. Little does she know she's saving me from myself.

I nod in understanding, though I have to admit that this revelation is hardly news.

It's not until we're nearly at the top of the stairs until further words are spoken. "He won't come out of the bathroom."

"Maybe he's showering, honey."

But this only earns me a sharp glare over her shoulder, complemented by pursed lips and squinted eyes. "The water's not running. He won't answer me when I knock."

As we pass Seth's room, I pause to peek in. He's lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. When he glances over at me, I flash him what I hope comes across as a knowing smile. Been there, son.

His phone buzzes before he can return the gesture. I'm immediately sidelined as he fields yet another call from, I can only assume, a hysterical Summer.

"Sandy?" Kirsten calls from further down the hall.

"Coming," I say, turning around and closing Seth's door behind me.

Ryan's room is dimly lit by the two small lamps set on the tables that sandwich the bed. It looks like a hotel room: warm, clean and yet unfamiliarly unlike home.

The bathroom door is closed, and Kirsten's softly knocking with the back of her hand. "Ryan?" she asks hopefully.

There's no answer. I reach forward and turn the doorknob which, much to my surprise, is not locked.

I cast a confused look at Kirsten, but she tilts her head to the side and holds up her palms. All but telling me that she doesn't feel comfortable walking in on Ryan when he's in the bathroom.

Right. Gotcha. It must be in the "Appropriate Behavior for Foster Mothers" handbook.

"Make sure he takes these," she says, taking my hand in hers and dropping a collection of pills into my palm.

I push the door open just enough to poke my head in. At first, I don't even see him. It's amazing how he can make himself almost invisible sometimes. I feel like I'm trying to see an image in one of those frustrating 3D prints. Eventually, I find the right focus and zoom in on Ryan. He's sitting on the floor beside the tub, his back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him.

I can't tell whether he's looking at me or I just happen to be in his line of vision. Either way, there's no acknowledgment of my presence, which makes my head hurt. Surely we aren't going through this again, are we?

The door clicks shut behind me. Even Kirsten's light steps vibrate through the walls as she slowly retreats from the room.

I drop the lid on the toilet and take a seat across from Ryan. Suddenly, I'm very tired again. It's like the kid's oozing exhaustion, and in my futile attempts to make it easier on him, I only end up absorbing his emissions.

In this small enclosed room, I can now clearly catch the scents of fuel and charred plastic wafting from Ryan's clothes. I want to kick myself for not giving him something else to wear at the hospital. I should have come home, grabbed some clean clothes. It just never crossed my mind at the time.

"Did you want to wash up, kid?" He glances up at me, as if only just realizing I'm here. "Maybe take a shower?"

He swallows and gives a small nod, grabbing the hem of his shirt and leaning forward.

I don't want to smother him, suffocate him when he made it more than clear earlier that he didn't want any help, but it looks like his limbs are made of rubber, and it could take all night if I let him go at it alone.

"Here," I offer, kneeling in front of him and helping him pull the shirt over his head. I can tell he hates this. He even manages a halfway glare, letting me know just how appreciative he is for all my help. I'm touched, really, but I honestly don't give a shit. It can't penetrate my thick parental skin.

If he wants to hate me right now, I'm fine with that. If it makes it easier for him in any way, I'll happily bear the brunt of his anger and grief, but I won't stand idly by as he struggles through what should be simple tasks. I just can't. Not as a semi responsible parent. I won't suffocate him…I'll just nudge him in the right direction.

* * *

Maurice stops just before the roadblock, checks his mirrors for the lights of some potential savior, then slams his fists against the steering wheel to the tune of a string of curses. 

This is the fourth time he has been forced to turn around. As a cab driver, it pained him to admit he didn't know where he was going, but three dead ends and a blocked off road later, he has to admit to being somewhat confused.

He's confident, though, that if he can find a way to maneuver his cab onto the shoulder, around the barricade of cement-filled pylons, and continue along this road, he'd be only two lefts and a stop sign away from Sandy Cohen's house.

He's sure of it. Almost.

He flashes his brights in a futile effort to see what's on the other side of the bright orange wall. Alas, they're not magical X-ray lights.

Resigned, he turns off the engine and climbs out of the car to examine his challenge. Unless there are huge, bottomless, car-swallowing holes in the road, he's planning on getting to the other side. Enough is enough. There is many a drunken Newport teen out there ready to mistakenly hand over tens instead of singles.

He ducks under a string of yellow tape and around the sea of pylons.

There are no major holes or obstructions that he can see, but something still doesn't seem right. There doesn't seem to be much of…well…anything. The road is completely intact. Except for small clusters of debris littering the pavement—nothing that a quick sweep of a broom couldn't fix—Maurice doesn't see any reason why it should be blocked off.

He scuffs his shoe against a stray piece of plastic—part of a bumper maybe?—when a reflection catches his eye.

After a quick glance over his shoulder to reassure himself that he is, indeed, alone, he leans over to examine the small object more carefully. It looks like a piece of jewelry. A necklace? He picks it up and rubs his thumb over the pendant to remove the oily glaze from its surface.

His father was a jeweler back in France. Even with his minimal knowledge of jewels and precious metals, Maurice knows, with certainty, that this particular object is not only worth something, but it might just bump him up to all inclusive without having to endure a night filled with screaming, sobbing, vomiting and mock French accents. He whistles loudly, trying to act casual while inconspicuously sliding the object into the deep pocket of his stained pants.

Happy about his findings, Maurice gets back into his cab and hugs the outer edge of the shoulder, unknowingly driving over a stray sign that simply states: DO NOT ENTER. CRIME SCENE.

* * *

Once Ryan's shirt is over his head, revealing those horrible bruises on his chest that I first learned about at the hospital, he slumps back against the wall, seemingly out of breath. 

"Do you need help with…?"

Another glare finds me, and I almost have to smile. I don't want to take your pants off anymore than you don't want me to take them off, kid. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Instead of crossing that awkward line, I grab his hand and drop the pills onto his palm. "Take these," I order, closing his limp fingers to form a fist.

Instead of doing the "stare and wait," which I've pretty much perfected by now, I try to keep busy. I push the shower curtain back and start running the water. When it's a reasonable temperature, I take a step back and reassess the situation.

He has swallowed the pills dry, but hasn't made any move to get up or remove any other piece of clothing.

"Well…" I run a hand through my hair, unsure of my next move. If this were Seth, I wouldn't even hesitate. But it's not Seth. And now I'm stuck. Do I push or do I just step away? If I do keep going forward with this, will he snap up his armor again like he did earlier?

"I'll tell you what," I start, trying to sound like I know what I'm doing here. "You go ahead and get into the shower, and I'll fetch you some clean clothes to wear when you get out."

There's no answer for several seconds, and I'm about to repeat myself when he blinks and focuses in on me. "What?" he mutters inarticulately.

"C'mon, kid," I urge, suddenly self-assured as I reach out and squeeze his knee, trying to contain his attention for a string of 10 consecutive seconds. "You'll feel better once you're properly cleaned up."

But again with the rubbery muscles. His head rolls forward unsteadily, chin against his chest.

"Um…Sandy?"

I jump at Kirsten's voice. I'm not the only one who's caught off guard. Ryan's jolted into the most upright position I've seen him in yet.

She smiles apologetically, her eyes drifting toward Ryan as she speaks to me. "There's…a…strange man here to see you."

I must look confused because she shrugs and motions the door with a tilt of the head. With one final squeeze of Ryan's knee, and assurances that I'll be right back, I scramble to my feet and meet my wife just outside the bathroom door.

"What?" I whisper harshly.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I told him to come back another time, but he says he needs to speak to you now."

My mind starts racing with all the possibilities of who could possibly want to speak to me at midnight. Is it the cops? Did they find this Volchok kid? Is this nightmare finally getting some closure?

Kirsten's already preparing Ryan's next dosage in the palm of her hand, placing it on the nightstand for later. "Go," she urges, "I'll stay with him." She looks nervous and yet sure at the same time as she enters the bathroom.

* * *

What I see as I turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs causes me to stop dead in my tracks. 

Seriously? Am I hallucinating or is this guy seriously standing in my home?

"Monsieur Cohen?"

"Ah…yes?"

I offer my hand because it's the thing to do. But judging from this guy's clothes, I'm going to want to endure a thorough scrub after.

"I, ah, I hope it okay. You know, so late," he says, gesturing to his Timex.

"Well, to be honest, this isn't a great time, no."

Didn't I cut this guy a ridiculously fat cab fare check made out to cash about 14 hours ago? What more could he possibly want from me?

"Uhhhh…" he starts, but there doesn't seem to be an end to his sentence, because he stares at me, wide-eyed and shell-shocked.

Is he high? Are his pupils always that dilated?

"Look, I don't have time for this right now, so if you wouldn't mind getting to the point…"

"Oui! Oui, oui!"

He starts digging around in his pockets, but I don't want anything that comes out of those pants.

He whips his hand from his pants and thrusts something in my direction. I jerk backwards, surprised and, frankly, a little scared.

Something clinks against the tiles, and the strange man forcefully urges a cell phone into my hands before dropping to his hands and knees to scour the floor for whatever it was he dropped.

I look at the phone, flip it open, close it again. "Is this…?"

He stops, pausing his frantic search to glance up at me. "Yes, yes," he says distractedly.

And that didn't answer my question. At all.

"Whose phone is this?" I ask firmly.

He gives an irritated sigh. Apparently, he can't locate his quarter, or whatever it was he dropped. "You know," he mutters, gesturing toward his face. "The…uh…boy with the…you know…blackened skin."

The boy with the blackened skin?

I make a point of enunciating as clearly as possible. "Is this Ryan's phone?"

He smiles at this, nodding enthusiastically. "Oui! Oui!" He's still on his hands and knees, and is getting more and more frantic the longer this futile search goes on.

My insides are churning, dying to get back to Ryan. But there isn't a chance in hell I'm leaving this lunatic crawling around my floor. I'm liberal, but there's a limit.

"Look, I really appreciate you coming by, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave now."

He stops, pats the ground a few more times, then slams his fist against the floor. I jump at this unexpected reaction. Christ, this guy's losing his mind over some spare change.

I dig into my pockets and pull out a handful of small change. "Here." I hold out the change, forcing into his hands much like he did with the cell phone. Except I do it while forcefully ushering him toward the door. "Take this. This should cover it. Thanks for coming by."

He nods and continues to stare at the ground as I place a hand on his shoulder and start guiding him out.

Finally, he concedes, shoulders slumped, and no longer resists my attempts to push him toward the door.

"Thanks again," I say, because I have no idea what else I _should_ say to this guy. Sorry about your quarter?

He nods and forces himself to smile.

But he doesn't turn around. He just keeps smiling and scanning the floor by my feet. I'm trying to smile back at him but I'm really creeped out at this point.

Finally, I just shut the door on him. What else can I do? Pay off the guy's mortgage?

I wait until I hear his footsteps going down the steps before I turn away.

But on my first step, something sharp digs into my right sole.

"Fuck!" I growl under my breath, grabbing my foot and hopping around until the pain fades to a manageable level. It's not very manly, I know, but as Seth would say, I'm a full-blooded Cohen.

When the throbbing subsides, I lean down and run my hand over the floor until I brush across something cold.

I pick it up and examine it. It looks like a…wishbone. A small, gold pendant in the shape of a wishbone. Is this what the weirdo was looking for?

I walk over to the window only to catch the sight of fading taillights. Knowing this guy, which I don't claim I do, he'll be back for it. As much as I dread that imminent encounter, I am eternally grateful to the guy.

I shake my head when I think about how that strange, obscure little man has managed to play such an important role in my family's life today. But at the same time, if I never see him again, it'll be too soon. His erratic behavior makes my head hurt.

After placing the gold wishbone on the table by the door and the cell phone in my pocket, I start the trek back up the stairs where, sadly, things aren't much more normal.

TBC.


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Just the epilogue left after this chapter. This is probably going to be the last story I post over here. I do plan on continuing to write, it's just that any future fics will probably only be posted on my Live Journal account (same username: joey51). I just prefer the two-way communication of that domain. All fic will be made public so you don't have to have an lj account or be on my friends list to read. Just thought I'd throw that out there in case anyone was still interested.

Thanks to **Sister Rose** for the beta.

**CHAPTER 10**

Two very long days crawl by, defined only by the change from sunlight to moonlight and then back again. Our personal schedules are hardly as regulated. I find myself trying to sleep in the afternoon, awake all night, but every time I lie down, I'm haunted with images and phrases I've seen and heard over the span of the past few days. I snap awake from a half-sleep more tired than I was before. If this is what I'm going through, I can't imagine how a few others are getting by.

Whenever Kirsten's not sitting with a very quiet and detached Ryan, she goes to be with Julie. When she finally comes to bed, exhausted and drained, she cries. It makes my chest hurt and my stomach cramp because I don't know how to help her, or what to say, so I just hold her until it's quiet—stewing with anger at the fact that I'm too exhausted to muster the right combination of sympathy and empathy to comfort my own wife.

Ryan stays within the walls of his new room. He seems to be sleeping the majority of the time, but I think I'm misreading that as well. He's rarely in his bed. Twice I've found him on the bathroom floor, once in the arm chair situated in the corner, and most of the time he's perched on the edge of the mattress, skirting the boundaries of sleep, but hardly getting any rest.

He always looks like he's ready to flee, always flinching away from familiarity—things that I thought he would find comfort in like the pillows from his bed in the pool house, which lay stacked in the corner, untouched and banished from his reach. When Kirsten brings it up, I explain to her that he's just letting us know how thrilled he is to be forced into a room where he's under constant watch. I don't tell her that I think he's doing it to escape feeling. That he doesn't want to accept anything like it was before. That he's stuck.

Seth isn't around much. He spends the majority of his days at Summer's, trying to calm his hysterically sad girlfriend. He comes home only to sleep. A few times I've found him passed out in the chair in Ryan's room. I never hear them talking.

It all leaves the house very quiet. Some of the older locals place dishes of food on the front porch, cards of concern attached to the lids with ribbon. In a stab at normalcy, Kirsten writes thank-you cards and makes sure we're strictly adhering to Ryan's medication schedule. He doesn't fight it when we drop a mélange of pills into his palm, but he doesn't ever say, "thank you." Not that I think our efforts warrant thanks, but it's just so uncharacteristic of the kid who practically apologizes for breathing. I try to tell myself to give him space—that he'll come around and, eventually, I'll get my son back— but to watch as he suffers…it's unbearable. Every time I leave his room, I swear I can feel multiple ulcers burning holes through my stomach lining.

I'm delegated the role of telling Ryan about the funeral. Kirsten hovers in the hall, pretending to dust a decorative vase. He outright refuses to go, says he doesn't feel well, but won't tell me the real reason why. I bring it up twice more, try to explain to him how important it is, even if it's the most painful thing he ever has to endure. He rolls over—actually in his bed this time—and ignores me. The third and final time I mention it, the night before the funeral, he stops just short of telling me to fuck off. Asks to be left alone. Says he can't breathe. Sits on the edge of the bed, hands linked behind his neck, head nearly between his knees. I move forward to help him—how? I don't know. Again, he demands I leave, yelling without raising his voice above a whisper.

I tell Kirsten to break the news to Julie, who for some reason, was adamant Ryan be present.

That night, I'm left alone to share my morbid thoughts with the ceiling above my bed. I assume Julie didn't take well to the news.

* * *

Three hours before the start of the funeral, I crawl out from a mess of tangled sheets. Fragments of sleep would work their way in between the onslaught of material that my brain can't seem to work its way through. It's frustrating, but it could be worse. I could be in Ryan's position…or Julie's. I stop that train of thought in mid-chug, before it enters the tunnel to my psyche. I don't need to go there. Ever. 

Though I have no further intentions of trying to convince Ryan to go to the funeral, I want to make sure he's settled and safe while we're all gone. He hasn't been alone in the house since the incident, and I know all too well the millions of thing that could go wrong in our absence. That much I can't block out.

I wipe the sleep from my eyes, my slippers dragging across the floor as I shuffle toward the kitchen, lured by the smell of freshly brewed coffee. God bless the man who invented coffee pots with timers. Mind you, I think the machine has been in constant use since our return from the hospital—no need for a timer.

I'm halfway to my goal when all the hair on the back of my neck stands straight up, a shiver running down to the tips of my fingers.

Without seeing, hearing, or smelling another person, I am positive I'm not the only person in the room. My breath catches in my throat and it takes three or four hard blinks before I am able to see that it's not the crazy French man in my living room, but instead, it's something that's actually more disturbing.

Ryan's slumped on the fantastically comfortable couch, fully clothed for the first time in days, a large duffel bag resting by his feet.

He doesn't look up, and as a result, doesn't get to see what I'm sure is a very amusing expression on my face. He's fiddling with something, his attention monopolized.

I step forward and go through the mental calculations. Ryan. Clothed. Duffel bag.

"You were going to leave."

He looks up, noticing me for the first time, and then winces and nods. He looks ashamed. An emotion I haven't seen in him during these past few days—a vulnerability that was barricaded inside of him. I've only witnessed the anger. Misdirected anger, I would like to think. But it looks like that has dissolved, leaving behind a very fragile version of the Ryan I once knew.

With all his armor down, it's clear now just how much weight he has lost during the past few days. His cheeks are hollowed out, his body lost in the leather jacket that used to fit him perfectly. Like a kid trying on his older brother's clothes. This Ryan is significantly younger.

I step forward slowly, praying he doesn't try to flee; I don't feel like tackling him, but I will if it comes to that. However, he doesn't seem to be in a rush to get anywhere. Not now, at least.

"Where were you going?" I ask him, trying to come across as casual as possible considering my heart's pumping 120 beats a minute and my head's still swimming through sleep sludge.

He shakes his head and I catch a barely discernible shrug. He closes his fist on the small object, looks up at me, his eyes apologetically withdrawn.

I sit down beside him, forcing myself to take deep breaths and try not to think of the many "what ifs" whipping through my brain. "What stopped you?"

He looks down into his lap, uncurls the fingers of his right hand. In his palm lays the small golden wishbone.

"Where'd you find this?" he asks me, his voice scratchy and hoarse.

"Oh, that." My voice comes out louder than intended. I can admit it: I'm surprised. "Yeah, that strange cab driver of yours dropped that while he was returning your cell."

Again, Ryan wraps his fingers tightly around the necklace, closing his eyes and tilting his head back into the cushions. In the sunlight, I can see the changing colors on his face; blacks and purples are mottled with greens and yellows. It's a sickening sight—reminds me too much of the horrifying pictures in his child-services file.

He takes a shuddering breath, swallowing thickly before releasing it. And it's the first time since he has been home that I see anything that truly resembles the Ryan we knew before—anything recognizable. Though it pains me to see him so obviously tortured, it's clear that whatever significance this object holds—whatever it reminds him of—is bringing him closer to home. Making him accessible again. And for that I'm eternally grateful.

I no longer feel like I have to walk on eggshells. It's like I've been given a permission slip to act normal again.

"Do you want me to take your bag upstairs?" I ask hopefully. Fortunately he doesn't seem to catch onto my desperateness.

He nods and leans forward, painstakingly pushing hands off knees and rising to his feet.

I grab the bag in one hand, surprised by its lightness, and follow a few steps behind Ryan. "Have you taken your meds?" I'm relishing the reopened lines of communications.

Again with the nod.

I make a conscious effort to keep my tone even when I ask, "Do you want me to get your suit ready?"

He stiffens and slows to a gradual stop.

I should feel massive loads of guilt for trying to pull a Simon Says-like trick over on Ryan to get him to agree to go to the funeral, but I'm willing to try anything. I know that if he doesn't go, it'll haunt him forever. And he has acquired more than enough demons to keep him occupied for the next few decades.

Imagine my surprise when he dips his head and whispers, "Okay."

"Yeah?"

He nods one last time, his fingers rubbing over the smooth surface of the golden wishbone.

* * *

Maurice straightens his bowtie and draws a deep breath. It's okay, he tells himself. They're nice people. They're not going to throw you out of their home as long as you don't show up in stained pants at midnight and crawl around on their floor like a vagabond. 

His stomach flips over. Obviously, his central nervous system hasn't bought into the little pep talk.

Maurice knocks once softly, and then three times slightly louder. He counts under his breath in French. If no one answers in 20 seconds or less, he'll forget the whole thing and move on with his life, settling for the Cuban beaches instead of the Caribbean cruise.

But the door flings open on cinq, revealing the generous Sandy Cohen dressed crisply in an expensive suit. Behind him, the beautiful blonde lady from the other night is stunning in a long dress, and the two boys, even the one with the black eyes and such, look just as nice in their tailored outfits. But they don't look happy. They all look extremely tired and worn—like Maurice feels after a summer weekend of taxiing. In fact, they look like someone just died.

Maurice curses his impeccable timing.

Sandy Cohen raises his bushy eyebrows, clearly surprised. Maurice smiles back widely, his internal voice telling him to play it cool—to just calmly ask for what's rightly his and be on his merry way.

"Uh…" But before Maurice can form a sentence, Mr. Cohen gestures with his index finger to his family that he'll be a minute, steps outside, and closes the door behind him.

"This is a really bad time," Mr. Cohen starts, running a hand through his hair.

"I'm so sorry," Maurice says, expressing his sincere regret. "I was just wondering whether you found my…uh…pendant?" He's not sure whether his English is comprehendible, but Mr. Cohen's face twists. The nervous tension is contagious and Maurice has to fight the urge to flee.

"Look…about that…."

"Ah! You found it!" he exclaims, joyous excitement trumping his anxiety.

Mr. Cohen frowns, reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet.

"How much is it worth to you?"

Maurice stops smiling immediately, stares back in confusion.

"Pardon?"

"The necklace…wishbone thing?"

Maurice nods fervently, eyes widening and scanning his peripheral vision. Is _this_ a setup? The one he'd been fearing all along? Is this guy a cop?

"Well," Mr. Cohen sighs, "I kind of…need it."

Maurice isn't sure he's understanding. Mr. Cohen found the pendant…and now wants to keep it?

"But, sir—"

"What do you want for it? Three hundred? Five hundred?"

Maurice's tongue slides down the back of his throat. Five hundred…dollars?! He'd appraised it at maybe 150…if he played his cards right. But this….

"Look, let's make it an even 600. Is that okay?"

Words fail to form in Maurice's mouth. "Ummmm…"

"Here," Mr. Cohen says. He looks over his shoulder nervously, making sure his family isn't watching as he pulls a huge wad of bills from his wallet. "Here. Cash. Take it."

Maurice accepts the money with shaky hands. He counts up to 500 and then loses track of the smaller bills. His head is about to explode. He pauses for a second, and then bolts, running to his car as fast as his short legs can carry him.

As he speeds down the interlock driveway, he can see Mr. Sandy Cohen's wide-eyed expression in the rear view mirror. If Maurice wasn't so afraid of pushing his luck, he would have stuck around long enough to offer the Cohens a ride to wherever it was they were going.

TBC.

One to go. Thanks for reading.


	12. Epilogue

A/N: So this one's done. And I think this is it for me at this site. I get the impression that no one around here is reading my stuff anymore anyway (I think most writers in this fandom have moved over to LJ). Like I said in my last chapter, I will still be posting all my fic on my livejournal account. Username: joey51. All fic will be made public. So if you're in any way interested, come on over.

I want to thank everyone who popped in to drop a comment along the way. I really do appreciate your support.

As always, dedicated to the lovely beachtree.

**EPILOGUE**

The funeral itself is a blur…and not anything like what I am expecting. I've always had a strange imagination when trying to picture major events before they happen, but this time, I've outdone myself. The last funeral I attended was my old Uncle Ted's. The guy was 79 when he died. He drank and smoked and lived his life to the fullest the only way he knew how. His funeral reflected that. It was a party with tears, a tribute with undertones of sadness. Ted was celebrated and laughs were shared. And no matter how many times I tell myself that an 18-year-old's funeral won't be a celebration of life, but rather a mourning of the life she could have had, the imagery doesn't quite sink in.

The second we step foot into the church, as much as family unit as we've ever been—supporting each other in ways we each individually require (Kirsten's hand in mine, her hand on Seth's shoulder, and Seth's shoulder grazing Ryan's)—I'm suffocated by the grief thickened air. Hands squeeze tighter, hearts drop in chests, and eyes fill with tears. All this without a word being spoken.

The ceremony is as beautiful as anyone can expect. But it is the kind of beautiful that makes art out of a war scene, not the kind that accompanies the cry of a newborn, or highlights a sunset in an orange sky.

Over the music of the orchestra and harmonious song of the choir, choking sobs rumble throughout the open space, bouncing off the cathedral ceilings and stained glass walls, echoing in my head.

When Julie is walking to her spot in the first row, she stops to hug Ryan. He avoids her eyes completely, but takes her hand. I'm able to catch a tiny glimmer of gold as the wishbone is transferred from his grasp to hers. A sob is released as she looks at the piece of jewelry, but she still manages to whisper, "Thank you," through the tears. Ryan responds neither verbally nor physically. My stomach burns.

Ryan sits at the end of our row, an arrangement I slap myself for after. He should be sandwiched by family, not positioned on the aisle, open to public spectacle. In front of us, Summer leans against her father. Julie clings to a very rigid Jimmy. Kaitlin glances around guiltily, like she's searching for a more deserving replacement, ready and willing to relinquish her spot in the front row.

Ryan doesn't look up when the casket is carted by. He doesn't acknowledge the stares and whispers—the fact that, for many, he's the center of attention. He stares down at his hands as the prayers are hummed. He closes his eyes when the eulogy is delivered. He gets up and leaves the church during the moment of silence.

And isn't it ironic that the one time silence is asked of him, he makes a scene.

Heads turn to stare, murmured commentary tainting the memories of those who are trying to pay their respect.

The remaining three of us stay put until the casket it carried out of the church upon strong shoulders. We wait until the final chord of the final song has been played. I feel like a starved wolf with raw meat dangling just inches away. I can't get out—get to Ryan—fast enough. As directions to the wake are being delivered through a microphone by a monotonous voice, I finally give in and start the procession, followed closely by other mourners. Seth stops the flow of traffic just long enough to place a kiss on top of a shuddering Summer's head, then rejoins the march to the parking lot.

We find Ryan sitting on the back bumper of the car. I wish I had saved him one of those cigarettes from the pack Kirsten and I finished off the other night. He looks like he could use it, along with a few pharmaceuticals I'd have to make a trip to Tijuana to get my hands on. He stiffly stands as we approach, avoids eye contact or any indication that he feels like acknowledging us or exchanging words, and climbs into the backseat of the car beside Seth. It's like he's sleepwalking, barely functional after depriving his battered body of almost every essential need for the last few days. I got ya, kid. Or at least I'm trying to understand.

Not a single word is spoken during the entire ride home. Kristen dabs at her eyes with a balled up tissue. Seth and Ryan stare out their respective windows. I try to respect everyone's space, blinking away the exhaustion as I separate from the pack of cars following the hearse. I forced Ryan to come to a funeral, not to watch a burial and then socialize with Newpsies over finger food.

When we get home, Ryan quietly retreats to his room, outright ignoring Kirsten's offer of tea or coffee. Seth follows, but the slam of the door tells us that he didn't gain entrance to Ryan's pseudo-home.

I kiss my wife, wipe the pads of my thumbs under her eyes to remove tear-diluted makeup, and excuse myself, bypassing the fantastically comfortable couch, heading straight for the bedroom. It's time to sleep. Really _sleep_. I can't resist the pull anymore. 'Cause it's obvious I'm not going to be able to stay awake until everything's okay. At this rate, it's going to be years.

The Valium sends stop-work orders to all my senses, and for the first time in days, I dive headfirst into unconsciousness. It's like the sleep Gods have sent an angel to drag me into a wonderful world of…nothing. No racing thoughts. No horrid dreams. Just…white. I can feel my body melting. This, I never want to end.

* * *

"Sandy, he locked the door." 

I retract my previous statement. The couch isn't really that great. Don't get me wrong, it's a fantastic couch, very comfortable, but this bed… Oh, God, this bed is Just. Fucking. Brilliant.

"Sandy…."

And the sheets are…well, let's just say that I take it back when I whined that Kirsten was wasting money on a high thread-count. Nothing that feels this good can be a waste of money.

"Sandy, please. I don't know what to do. I know you're exhausted…."

The bed shifts under me, a warm hand rests on my arm. "He was supposed to take his pills an hour ago. I...don't know what to do."

I've found my weakness. Sleep is my narcotic. One taste and I can't get enough.

"Please…."

There's only one way to do this: cold turkey—like ripping off a band-aid. In one fluid motion, my eyes are open and I'm sitting upright, back ramrod straight to avoid a relapse. Colors swarm my vision and it feels like the room is moving. I take a deep breath and hold it, exhaling when I've regained my equilibrium.

There's still no light filtering through the blinds, but I don't need darkness to realize I've only caught a couple hours of sleep—hardly enough, considering.

Kirsten's merely an unfocussed blob hovering on the outskirts of my vision. I can hear her sniffling. Not crying, really, but fighting the pull of worry and frustration.

I blink a few times to clear the fog.

She's holding her head in her hands, fingers white-knuckled and gripping chunks of blonde hair. I've only seen her like this a couple times before. The sight would break my heart if it were remotely whole right now.

"Okay," I breathe into her ear, accepting her into my arms.

She nods against my shoulder and wipes her eyes. "Thank you."

Seth's sitting in the hallway, his back against one of the guest room's walls. His knees are pulled up into his chest, his hair a mess of curls that—combined with his red-rimmed eyes—give him an unorganized, flustered appearance. At least, more so than usual.

"He told me to go away…except not so nicely." I can tell Seth's trying to accomplish witty, but the effort is muted by sadness. It's just not there. No one's acting like themselves lately.

I try the doorknob but it won't turn.

"Since when are there locks on these doors?" I wonder out loud.

"Since Aunt Hailey realized she had something to hide," Seth counters wryly.

I grunt and shake my head. I'll send Hailey a thank you note for helping to make this day just that much more difficult.

I lean up close to the door and call out, "Ryan?"

No response.

Seth shakes his head, and I half expect him to accuse me of being an amateur, but not being himself and all, he refrains.

"Can you open the door, please? You're worrying us."

When there's no response, I do something so out of character, I feel like I'm having an out of body experience of some sort. Like I'm in a movie, about to save the day. I take three steps backwards and then charge forward, my shoulder smashing into the door with an audible crack.

Except _that_ never happens in the movies. The door, I'm pretty sure, is supposed to collapse into a pile of dust, no challenge for my Herculean strength.

After a quick appraisal of my arm, I'm relieved to find that the cracking sound came from the door and not my ancient bones. Seth has scurried backwards, a stunned expression on his face.

"Sandy! What are you doing?" Kirsten yells from behind me, a tissue in her hand, cheeks streaked with black lines.

But instead of answering, I charge forward again, connecting just as hard the second time which results in several more cracks and a visible warp where the wood is splitting.

It might not be a grand Hollywood entrance, but at least I'm getting somewhere.

This time, there's no objection from my audience, and just as I'm about to charge forward again, the brass knob turns and there's a popping sound as the lock is released.

Okay, honestly, after all that, I kind of wanted to break my way through. But I'll take what I can get right now.

It takes some effort to get the door to budge after I've mutilated it, but it eventually swings open with a screech, teetering on bent hinges.

The bed, I notice, is not only made, but completely wrinkle-free—the sheets pulled down on one corner, Kirsten-style.

But Ryan doesn't opt for the ridiculously comfortable looking bed. And I mean _ridiculously_ comfortable. Instead, he's sitting on the floor in the corner, ironically, beside the massive, plush armchair. I can't—and my Valium-sodden brain physically won't—even try to process _why_. What's even more ironic is that he and Seth are practically mirror images right now. With the floor squatting and the messy hair. This is one of those rare times when I could actually allow myself to believe that they are related.

I feel like I'm fighting the strongest of all magnetic forces, bypassing the bed and then the chair, only to slide down the wall and sit next to Ryan. I admire the kid's self-restraint. 'Cause this is _hard_.

I hear pills rattling around in bottles as Kirsten jogs up the stairs, but as she gets closer, it quiets to nothing. I can picture her hovering just outside the door, she and Seth fighting for positions most conducive to eavesdropping. I'm thankful she's letting me go at this alone, because I have a feeling I'm not going to make a whole lot of sense but at least Ryan won't call me on it.

"You know that thing over there?" I say, waving my hand toward the bed, ready to give him the same lecture he has heard many times over the past few days. "It beats the hell out of this floor."

He doesn't open his eyes, or even bother lifting his head from the resting spot on his forearms before responding. "I don't want to sleep here."

I got nothing. Right now, I think that's the craziest thing he could say.

"I want to go home."

Okay. Scratch that. We have a new leader.

Does he think he's somewhere else? Is he even remotely…here?

"You are home," I assure him.

"No." He shakes his head, rubs his eyes lethargically. "Home, home."

Uh… "The pool house?"

He shakes his head again. I'm at a loss. Surely he doesn't mean….

"Ryan, this _is_ your home."

He blinks, grimaces and rests his head back on his forearms.

"Not like this," he mumbles.

No, this is about the biggest disaster of a week ever, but I can't make _that_ better. No one can make that better. I can't help, and my stomach takes this opportunity to slip out from the mighty grip of the Valium, the familiar sense of intense burning wrenching my gut.

I'm forced to stick to the basics. I hate myself for saying it, but there's nothing left to do. "Why don't you get some sleep? Some _real _sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

He shakes his head, sighs, like I'm not getting it.

"What is it then?"

One hand works its way behind his neck, rubbing at what I assume are some very disgruntled muscles. "Nothing's the same."

"No," I agree, staring at him intently, hoping he goes on.

"Everything's different."

I nod, place my hand on his knee, squeezing encouragingly.

We sit like that for a moment. My head's once again swirling with a thousand feelings that I can't put into words. I can't imagine what Ryan's head feels like.

Finally, he breaks the silence. This time, he sounds weak. Sad and broken, like he did this morning, as he confesses, "I don't even know what day it is."

Neither do I. Are we still living in _that_ day? Or have we crossed over the imaginary bridge that leads us to the land of never ending grief and guilt? If not, does it actually get worse than this? That's a more disturbing thought than I can handle at the moment.

"Do you know how scary that is?" he asks, meeting my gaze with steady blue eyes, his face etched with pain and his fingers starting to clench, like he's building up to something. "It's like time is standing still."

I hold my breath for a minute and exhale as slowly as possible. He's right. This sucks. He's in some sort of time warp, and unfortunately, all that reality does is take away whatever deluded hope he has managed to conjure up in his alternative universe.

"Don't touch that," I snap without much thought. It's second nature now. But he listens—discontinues picking at the edge of the bandage on his wrist.

"I want to go home. I can't be here anymore. I can't be here. I can't." But he doesn't make a move to get up. And it makes me wonder whether it's here—this actual physical place—that he can't be, or somewhere a little less avoidable.

"Just relax," I say, trying to calm him down. "Try to get some rest—"

"Relax? Do you know…. You weren't there. You didn't see her face."

Got me there, kid. "No." I shake me head. "I didn't."

He opens his mouth like he's about the say something, but comes up empty. Instead, his fingers resume rubbing at his very tired eyes.

"Tell me what I can do," I say honestly, "because I have no idea how to help you right now, Ryan." It's a bit blunt, but what else is there to say? And will it really make a difference? He's in a spin and I have no idea how to break the cycle for him.

"Turn back time," he says finally. And I'll be damned if there isn't a tiny bit of humor in his voice.

"If I had those sort of capabilities, kid, I would have averted this whole disaster many days ago."

Several breaths pass before he speaks again.

"I can't keep track," he mumbles into his hands.

"Of what?"

"Everything," is all he says.

That makes more sense to me than it probably should. Because Ryan hates being out of control. He leads his life like he forms his words: controlled, concise and simple.

And that's when it hits me.

I squeeze his knee tightly and he stops rubbing, stops moving. I take advantage of the undivided attention. "This…isn't going to be what you want to hear. And there's really nothing I can say right now to make things remotely okay. But I need you to listen to me for a second." He doesn't agree, but it doesn't matter. "This has been the worst week of your life." That elicits a shaky sigh. "I know that, Ryan. We all know that." I squeeze his knee again for good measure. "But whether it seems fair or not, everything's going to keep going. The sun's going to come up in the morning. The world's going to keep turning. Whether you're willing to accept it or not, time's going to keep passing…"

* * *

"Well?" Kirsten asks me when we're halfway down the hallway, flicking off light switches as we pass, leaving the entire wing of the house buried in darkness. 

"He's okay." I say.

She looks unconvinced.

"For now. For now, he's okay."

"What do you do?"

"What?" I ask, keeping a tight hold on the banister as I plod down the last few stairs.

She turns to face me, walking backward across the living room. "I can't get through to him. Not like that, anyway."

"It's simple." I say with a shrug.

"Obviously I don't think so."

"No…. It's just, Ryan's not that complicated. I forget sometimes, that it's often easier to just strip things down with him. Go back to the basics. Keep it simple."

She purses her lips. I can tell she's getting frustrated with my vagueness. "So what was the simple solution to this simple problem?"

Without any discussion on the matter, we both sit on the fantastically comfortable couch, which has recently become a very popular piece of furniture. "He's unsettled. Feels like there's no stability. Nothing familiar and reliable." I cast a glance in her direction out of the corner of my eye. "So I gave him my watch."

She almost smiles at me. Almost. "You gave him your watch?"

I shrug. "He didn't put it on his wrist, obviously, but he could hear it."

"That's simple?"

"Grounding?" I offer, searching for a better word.

"Grounding," she repeats, folding her arms across her stomach. I know exactly what _that_ means.

"He needed something constant," I try to explain. "Something that was never going to change. Something to keep things as real as possible for him right now. It's comforting."

"Your watch…is comforting." Still with the skeptical glare and the folded arms. I rotate and lean back so that my head's resting in her lap. She unfolds herself, running long fingernails across my scalp. The house is eerily silent, the only sound decipherable is the clucking of her watch, a steady pulse in my ear. I close my eyes, absorbing the hypnotizing rhythm.

"You and I…we can't help him," I start, recognizing the slur in my words. "There are some things that only time can heal."

Soft lips press against my forehead. I take a deep breath and attempt to sum it all up with one final thought. "It's just nice to know that somewhere, all the time, a clock is ticking."

**FINI, says Maurice!**

Again, thank you for reading and commenting and generally supporting :)


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